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SHORT STORIES 

FOR 

HIGH SCHOOLS 


EDITED 

WITH INTRODUCTION AND BIOGRAPHIES 

✓ 

BY 

NELLIE OCTAVIA PLE'e 

o 

DIRECTOR OF ENGLISH 

NORTHEASTERN HIGH SCHOOL, DETROIT, MICH. 

AND 

EDWIN L. MILLER 

» 

PRINCIPAL, NORTHWESTERN HIGH SCHOOL, DETROIT, MICH. 


LYONS & CARNAHAN 


CHICAGO 


NEW YORK 


COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY 
LYONS AND CARNAHAN 



©Cl. A44G308 

'VU l , 






EDGAR ALLAN POE 

‘ ‘ The great imaginative writer who has 
influenced French imaginative writers more 
deeply than any other foreign writer since 
Byron.” —Arnold Bennett. 




























































~ / 




































































































i 
























CONTENTS 


Page 


* 


Introduction. 

Purpose of the Book. 7 

Development of the Short-Story. 7 

The Short-Story Defined. 9 

Classification of the Short-Story. 10 

Selections and Introductions. 

The Knight’s Tale, Geoffrey Chaucer. 13 

Biography . 19 

Ali Baba; or The Forty Bobbers, Arabian Nights.. 20 

Introductory Note . 36 

The Story of Hilpa and Shalum, Joseph Addison. 37 

Biography . 44 

Dissertation Upon Boast Pig, Charles Lamb. 46 

Biography. 56 

The Spectre Bridegroom, Washington Irving. 57 

Biography. 78 

Fragments of a Boman Tale, Thomas B. Macaulay. 80 

Biography.100 

The Great Carbuncle, Nathaniel Hawthorne.102 

Biography. 122 

The Black Cat, Edgar Allan Poe.124 

Biography.138 

The French Sympathizer, Pedro Antonio de Alarcon.139 

Biography.150 

The Pope’s Mule, Alphonse Daudet.151 

Biography.164 

The Substitute, Francois Coppee.165 

Biography.180 

A Lodging for the Night, Bobert Louis Stevenson.181 

Biography.209 

The Necklace, Guy de Maupassant.211 

.Biography.222 

Wee Willie Winkie, Budyard' Kipling.224 

Biography.239 

Questions.241 

Bibliography .245 




































INTRODUCTION 

I 

Purpose of the Book 

The purpose in presenting this book is three-fold. 
Primarily it is to give the student the opportunity 
to become acquainted with certain writers of interest, 
and to arouse in him a desire to read other works of 
these authors. Second, it is to enable the student to 
appreciate, and thus enjoy, a type of story short in 
form, logical in development, complete in action, 
single in motive and impression. Finally, by choosing 
selections from representative writers of different 
periods, the editors hope to show the changes in 
growth of the modern short-story. 

II 

Development of the Short-Story 

Except in technique, the short-story is not a new 
form of literature. In essentials it may be traced to 
its origin, the stories of the early savages told around 
their camp-fires, 1 and thus handed down. Because 
the stories were more or less true and treated of some 
of life’s unities (lesser ones), they were the germ 
of the present short-story, which takes some one of 
the greater unities, some vital phase of life, and 
presents it with a serious motive and a well worked 
out technique, though often with no greater dramatic 

1. R. L. Stevenson in VaUima Letters . 

7 


8 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

action. To these stories of savage times may be 
added some of the Old Testament narratives, the 
tales of the early Greeks and Romans, and, later, the 
Gesta Romanorum, 1 the Decameron, 2 the Canterbury 
Tales, and the numerous ballads of mediaeval fiction. 
In that they aim to tell a story effectively and contain 
some sort of plot, emotion, setting, situation, etc., 
these are not unlike the short-story. 

The fifteenth and sixteenth centuries were less 
fertile for this form of expression. There arose the 
short-story essay introduced by Defoe, practiced by 
Steele and Addison, culminating in Goldsmith and 
Lamb. With these two men, its best promoters, this 
form of the essay ended, the natural result of the 
growth of technique which caused a divergence of 
the short-story proper from the essay form. 

The short-story in its finished and distinct form 
is a product of the United States and France. It is 
not the purpose of this book, however, to trace its 
development in these countries. Relative to France 
it is sufficient merely to mention the names of Nodier, 
Gautier, Daudet, Coppee, Maupassant. In the United 
States, until the middle of the nineteenth century, 
the short-story existed in an incomplete form in tales 
by Irving and Hawthorne. It was brought to per¬ 
fection and established by Poe (beginning with 
Berenice, 1835) as a special, self-sufficient, and com¬ 
plete form of literature. 

1. A rude collection of various tales and anecdotes from all parts 
of the world. 

2. A collection of 100 Novella written by Boccaccio. Today only 
forty of these are considered readable. 


INTRODUCTION 


9 


III 

The Short-Story Defined 

As we have seen, the short-story is an offspring of 
the simple narrative or tale. The chief point of dif¬ 
ference is that, whereas the former emphasizes mere 
facts and the interesting sequence of incidents, the 
latter gives prominence to a situation, and makes 
facts important only as they are related to the 
climax. 

The short-story as conceived by Poe was a sketch, 
with or without action, in which the effect as a whole 
was single. The more modern conception is that of 
a piece of action having both singleness of impression 
and unity of action, the one as obvious as the other. 
In either case, moreover, the action must have an 
increasing complication as the story progresses. This 
complication may be one of three types, resulting in 
a distinct type of story: complication of the struggle 
of man with the forces of external nature; struggle 
of man with man; conflict in man himself. In addi¬ 
tion to complication, furthermore, the action must 
have setting (Kipling and Maupassant form), atmos¬ 
phere (Poe form), background, characterization, nar¬ 
rative. Briefly, the short-story may be defined (if 
definition be possible) as a piece of composition which 
has dramatic complication, and which aims to present 
a phase of life in a brief, direct, compressed man¬ 
ner, with singleness of effect and completeness of 
impression. 


10 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


IV 

Classification of the Short-Story 

The following classification is very simple. It 
includes only the five fundamental types which grow 
out of the different forms of complication, and from 
which all subdivisions arise. 

I. Stories of Setting or Local Color. 

Hamlin Garland: Up the Coulee. 

R. L. Stevenson: Merry Men. 

Guy de Maupassant: Moonlight. 

Bret Ilarte: Stories in The Luck of Roaring 
Camp. 

James Lane Allen: A Kentucky Cardinal. 
Alphonse Daudet: The , Stars. 

II. Stories of Emotion. 

a. Love 

G. W. Aldrich: Marjorie Daw. 

Alfred Tennyson: Enoch Arden. 

Rudyard Kipling: The Courting of Dinah 

Shadd. 

H. C. Bunner: The Love Letters of Smith. 
Bible: The Book of Ruth. 

b. Pathos 

Rudyard Kipling: Baa Baa Black Sheep. 
Guy de Maupassant: The Necklace. 


INTRODUCTION 


11 


Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Ambitious Guest. 
Alphonse Daudet: The Last Class. Death of 
the Dauphin. 

c. Tragedy and Terror 

Edgar Allan Poe: The Black Cat; The Tell- 
Tale Heart. 

Nathaniel Hawthorne: Ethan Brand. 

Guy de Maupassant: The Coward. 

Ouida (De la Rame) : A Leaf in the Storm. 
Pedro Antonio de Alarcon: The French 
Sympathizer. 

d. Humour 

Alphonse Daudet: The Pope’s Mule. 

Charles Lamb: Dissertation on Roast Pig. 
Frank Stockton: Our Fire-Screen. 

H. C. Bunner: The Two Churches of Quaw- 
ket. 

0. Henry: Rose of Dixie. 

III. Stories of Character. 

R. L. Stevenson: A Lodging for the Night. 
Ivan Turgenieff: A Lear of the Steppes. 
Hamlin Garland: Up the Coulee. 

Francois Coppee: The Captain’s Vices; The 
Substitute. 

Mary Wilkins Freeman: A Village Singer. 

M. Tchekhov: On Trial. 

Guy de Maupassant: A Piece of String. 


12 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


IV. Psychological Stories. 

Frank Stockton: The Lady or the Tiger. 

R. L. Stevenson: Will o’ the Mill; Markheim. 
Gny de Maupassant: The Coward. 

E. E. Hale: The Man without a Country. 
Leonid Andreyev: The Dilemma. 

Paul Bourget: The Disciple. 

V. Stories of Adventure and Action. 

Rudyard Kipling: The Man Who Would Be 
King. 

Thomas Hardy: The Three Strangers. 

R. L. Stevenson: The Sieur de Maletroit’s 
Door. 

Jack London: Building a Fire. 

The Arabian Nights. 


SHORT STORIES 


THE KNIGHT’S TALE* 

Paraphrased from Chaucer's “Canterbury Tales" by Edwin 
L. Miller 

Theseus, duke of Athens, on his way home after 
conquering and wedding Ipolita, queen of the Ama¬ 
zons, was met, when almost at the gates of his own 
city, by a company of ladies, clad all in black, who 
knelt two by two in the highway and made a great 
cry and woe. When he enquired why they perturbed 
so his triumph with crying, the oldest lady of them 
all informed him that they were the widows of 
Theban noblemen who had been put to death by the 
tyrant Creon, who now held sway in that city and 
refused burial to the bodies of their slain lords. They 
prayed him therefore to ride forth to Thebes and 
take suitable vengeance on Creon. Their sorrow so 
sank into his heart that, without entering Athens or 
stopping even so much as half a day to take his ease, 
he set out for Thebes, fought and slew Creon, Won 
and razed the city, and restored to the ladies the 
bones of their husbands that were slain. 

After the battle and discomfiture, there were found, 
in a pile of dead, two young knights of royal blood, 
Palamon and Arcite. Both were grievously wounded 

* The translations In this collection are original. The other 
stories have been taken from editions previous to 1891, and arranged 
by the editors. 


13 


14 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and both were carried prisoners to Athens, where 
for several years they were confined, Theseus refusing 
all terms of ransom. 

11 Thus passeth year by year and day by day 
’Til it fell once upon a morn in May 
That Emelie, that fairer was to seene 
Than is the lily in her stalkes greene, 

And fresher than the May with flowres newe— 

For with the rose colour strof her hewe, 

came before daybreak into the garden which adjoined 
the tower where the two noble kinsmen were confined. 
This Emelie was the sister of Queen Ipolita. It so 
chanced that, while she gathered flowers and ‘ 1 hevenly 
song,” she was seen from his prison window by 
Palamon, who therewithal blent and cried “a!” as 
that he “strongen were unto the lierte.” When 
Arcite set his eyes upon her he too fell straightway 
in love; her beauty hurt him so 

“That if that Palamon is wounded sore 
Arcite is hurt as much as he, or more. M 

The result was a long and none too amiable argument 
between the two young gentlemen, in which Palamon 
maintained that he saw her first and that Arcite was 
therefore in honor bound to banish all thought of 
her from his mind, while Arcite took the ground that 
love has nothing to do with law or logic and declared 
that he would win Emelie if he could in spite of 
Palamon. 

The best friend of Duk Theseus was Duk Perotheus, 
who ‘‘loved wel Arcite.” At the prayer of Pero¬ 
theus, Theseus finally released Arcite on condition 


THE KNIGHT’S TALE 


15 


that, if he were ever caught in Attica, he with “a 
swerd should lese his heed.” Far from being pleased 
with these arrangements, Arcite, because he could no 
longer see Emelie, declared that he must henceforth 
dwelle 

11 Nought in purgatorie, but in helle.” 

Palamon, on the other hand, was so fearful that his 
rival would come back with an army and win Emelie 
that the “grete tour resowneth of his yolling and 
clamour. ’ ’ 

“Now loveyeres axe I this question, 

‘Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamon? 

That on may se his lady day by day, 

But in prisoun he moote dwelle alway; 

That other may wher him lust ryde or go, 

But seen his lady shal he never mo. ’ 1 ’ 

Arcite, indeed, after his return to Thebes, sorrowed 
to such an extent that he waxed lean and dry as any 
shaft. When he had endured a year or two this cruel 
torment, one day he caught a great myrour 

“And saugh that changed was al his colour .’ 1 
He therefore ventured to go back under the name of 
Philostrate to Athens, where he had the good for¬ 
tune to obtain service as page of the chamber of 
Emelie the bright. So well did he acquit himself in 
this capacity that Theseus made him squire, after a 
year or two, of his own chamber, and “three year in 
this wise his life he led.” 

Palamon meantime had languished seven years in 
prison. In the seventh year in May the third night 
soon after midnight by help of a friend, however, he 


16 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


broke prison, and before day had hidden himself in 
a wood near Athens. When morning came, 

“The busy larke, messager of day, 

Saluteth in her song the morne gray, 

And fyry Phebus ryseth up so brighte 
That al the orient laugheth of the lighte. * ’ 

Arcite, enchanted by the fairness of the day, rode 
ont to do his observance to May and lond he sang 
“against the sone-scheene,’’ 

11 May, with al thine fioures and thy greene, 

Welcom be thou, wel faire freissche May . 1 * 

But, as your lover is “now up, now doun, as boket in 
a welle,’ ’ his joy was shortly followed by melancholy. 
He sat him down, as luck would have it, directly in 
front of the bushes where Palamon had hidden him¬ 
self and cried: 

“Ye slen me with your eyhen, Emelie! “ 

This was too much for Palamon, who “quook for ire” 
and started up as he were mad out of the bushes thick, 
crying, “Arcite, false traitor wikke!” The upshot 
of the encounter was that they agreed the next day 
to fight it out there in the wood; and in the meantime 
Arcite, like the true knight that he was, brought his 
foe meat and drink and cloth for his bedding. 

When they met to combat the next day, Palamon 
was in his fighting like a mad lion and like a cruel 
tiger was Arcite; but, as they contended up to their 
ankles in blood, their contest was interrupted by 
Duke Theseus, who, with Ipolita and Emelie, had 
ridden forth to hunt. On being discovered Palamon 


THE KNIGHT’S TALE 


17 


begged him to give neither of them mercy or refuge, 
crying ‘ ‘ Slay me first, for sacred charity, but slay my 
fellow too as well as me, or slay him first, for this is 
Arcite. ’ ’ At this Theseus waxed mightily wroth; but 
the queen, for very womanhood, began to weep, and 
so did Emelie, whereupon, as pity runneth soon in 
gentle heart, aslaked was his mood, and he said: 

“The god of love, a! benedicite! 

How mighty and how great a lord is he! 

Who may not be a foie, if that he love? 

You know yourself that Emelie may not wed two. 
Therefore this day fifty weeks each of you shall bring 
a hundred knights to Athens, and the winner of the 
combat which we shall hold between them shall have 
Emelie to wife.” 

Both of the lovers acquiesced joyfully in this de¬ 
cision and set out to enlist knights for the tourna¬ 
ment, while Theseus busied himself in building a 
theatre a mile in circumference, walled of stone, and 
dyched all about. Eastward above the gate there 
were an oratory and an altar in worship of Venus, 
westward such another in mind and memory of Mars, 
and northward in a turret on the walls a third in 
honor of Diana. 

At the appointed time, for love and for increase of 
chivalry, there came to Athens with the rivals a great 
company of noble warriors. Two hours before day¬ 
break, on the morning set for the contest, Palamon 
repaired to the east gate and prayed to Venus that 
he might win Emelie; the goddess gave a sign that 
assured him that his prayer was granted. At the 


18 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

third hour up rose the sun and up rose Emelie, 
who at once went to the temple of Diana and begged 
the goddess that she might remain forever unwed, 
but was assured that she must marry one of her 
lovers; which the goddess would not tell. At the 
fourth hour Arcite betook himself to Mars, who 
assured him that he should be victorious. 

Thereupon up rose in heaven such great strife 
between Venus, the goddess of love, and Mars, the 
stern god army-potent, that Jupiter was busy it to 
stent, until Saturn put an end to it by declaring that 
he knew a way to give Palamon his lady and yet 
allow Arcite to win the tournament. To make a long 
story short, though Palamon performed prodigies of 
valor in the combat, he was finally captured and 
adjudged loser; but, while Arcite was riding vic¬ 
torious about the lists, Saturn caused a fire infernal 
to frighten his horse, he was thrown violently, and so 
injured that, after lingering some days, he expired. 
Theseus, who loved him dearly, sought to comfort 
himself with this reflection: 

‘ 1 This world nys but a tlmrghfare ful of woe, 

And we ben pilgrims passyng to and froe; 

Deth is an end of every worldly sore.” 

However, after he had caused the remains to be 
burned with great pomp, he called Palamon and 
Emelie to him, and commanded them to wed, justi¬ 
fying his decision on the ground that it is wisdom to 
“maken vertu of necessite.” 

“And thus with blys and eek with melodye 
Hath Palamon y-wedded Emelie. , * 


THE KNIGHT’S TALE 


19 


Geoffrey Chaucer, 1340-1400. 

“One of the world’s three or four great story tellers,” and 
the father of our modern English language, was the son of a 
well-to-do London merchant. Though little is known of his 
schooling, the fact that a large part of his life was spent as 
page, valet, and squire at the court of Edward III, then the 
most brilliant prince in Europe, would indicate that he must 
have had a fair education. Furthermore, from his own lines 
we learn that he spent the nights at his books. When still 
but a youth he accompanied Edward in one of the Hundred 
Years’ War expeditions into France, where he was taken 
prisoner and released only on a ransom paid from the 
royal treasury. Later, he made a number of important diplo¬ 
matic visits to other countries, where he became acquainted 
with the most learned men of his time, and held several com¬ 
mercial posts for the crown. At forty, he was one of the 
greatest scholars of the day, a soldier, courtier, statesman, 
poet. At the age of fifty, he retired from public life and 
devoted himself to his greatest work—the Canterbury Tales. 
He died at Westminster. His body was the first to occupy a 
place in the Poets’ Corner of the Abbey. 

Chaucer’s writings show the genial nature, the animation, 
gayety, yet withal sympathy, of the man himself. They are 
“illuminated” with kindly satire and mellow humor. The 
Canterbury Tales especially reveal dramatic power and skill 
in delineation. They give so vivid a picture of the people 
and scenes of five-hundred years ago that in reading them one 
feels himself in the very atmosphere of mediaeval England. 

Besides the Canterbury Tales, the last and greatest of his 
works, Chaucer wrote a number of other poems. The best 
known are The House of Fame, Legend of Good Women, 
Parlement of Fowls, Troilus and Cressida. 

Suggested Headings: The Pardoner’s Tale, The Prioress’ 
Tale, The Cleric’s Tale, The Man of Law’s Tale, The Nun’s 
Priest’s Tale. 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY ROBBERS 


In a town of Persia once lived two brothers, one 
named Cassim and the other Ali Baba. Their father 
had left his small property equally divided between 
them. Cassim married a rich wife and became a 
wealthy merchant. Ali Baba married a woman as 
poor as himself, and lived by cutting and selling wood. 

One day in the forest, just as Ali Baba had fin¬ 
ished cutting a load of wood, he noticed at a distance 
a great cloud of dust. On its nearer approach, he 
saw that it was due to a large number of horses 
mounted by men whom he suspected to be robbers. 
He at once hid himself in one of the trees so that he 
could watch what passed beneath. The troop of forty 
armed men rode near the tree and dismounted. They 
unbridled their horses and fed them, and took off 
their saddle-bags Weighted as if filled with gold and 
silver. They then followed the captain through some 
shrubs to a rock which stood near Ali Baba’s hiding- 
place. The captain said in a loud voice, “Open, 
Sesame!” 1 As soon as he had uttered the words, a 
door opened in the rock; and after he had made all 
his men enter before him, he followed them, when the 
door shut again of itself. 

Although the robbers stayed for some time within, 
Ali Baba remained in the tree, not daring to move 
until they had come out and gone out of sight. Then, 
desirous of seeing whether the captain’s words would 

1. A small grain. 


20 


ALI BABA; OK THE FORTY ROBBERS 21 

be as effective if he spoke them, he descended from the 
tree, and going up to the door hidden in the shrubs, 
said: * 1 Open, Sesame!” At once the door flew open. 

Instead of a dark, dismal cavern, Ali Baba was 
surprised to find a large room, well lighted from the 
top and containing all sorts of provisions, rich bales 
of silk, brocades, valuable carpeting, gold and silver 
ingots in great heaps, and money in bags. 

Ali Baba went boldly into the cave; loaded his asses 
with bags of gold coin; and, covering the bags with 
sticks so that they would not be seen, returned to his 
home in town. 

"When he reached home, he secured the door of his 
house, and emptied out the gold before his wife, who was 
dazzled by its brightness. Then he told her of his ad¬ 
venture, at the same time warning her to keep it secret. 

The wife wanted to count the gold, piece by piece, 
but Ali Baba said that he would dig a hole and bury 
it. “But let us know as nearly as possible how much 
we have,” she replied. “I will borrow a small meas¬ 
ure, and measure it, while you dig the hole.” 

Away she ran to the house of Cassim, who lived 
near by, and asked the loan of a measure. The sister 
in-law, knowing the property of Ali Baba, was curious 
to know what sort of grain his wife wanted to meas¬ 
ure, and artfully put some suet in the bottom of the 
measure before giving it over to her. Ali Baba’s wife 
went home and carefully measured the gold; then, to 
show her exactness and diligence to her sister-in-law, 
carried the measure back without noticing that a piece 
of gold had stuck to the bottom. 


22 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


As soon as her sister-in-law had gone, Cassini’s 
wife looked at the bottom of the measure, and with 
great surprise and envy found the piece of gold. 

‘‘What!” said she, “has Ali Baba gold in such 
quantities that he measures it! ” Hence, when Cassim 
came home she said to him, “I know you think your¬ 
self rich, but Ali Baba is much richer. He does not 
count his money; he measures it. ’ ’ Cassim then asked 
her to explain, whereupon she told him how she had 
found it out, at the same time showing him the piece 
of money, which was so old they could not tell in 
what prince’s reign it was coined. 

Cassim, who had neglected his brother since his 
marriage, was very angry and envious when he heard 
this, and after a sleepless night, he rose early and 
went to his brother. “Ali Baba,” said he, “you pre¬ 
tend to be miserably poor, and yet you measure gold. 
My wife found this at the bottom of the measure you 
borrowed yesterday.” 

Ali Baba perceived that through his own wife’s 
folly, Cassim knew what they desired above all else 
to conceal. But he knew, too, that there was no use 
trying to conceal his good fortune; hence he con¬ 
fessed all, offering his brother part of the treasure to 
keep the secret. 

“I expected as much,” replied Cassim haughtily; 
‘ ‘ but I must know exactly where this treasure is, and 
how I may visit it myself when I choose; otherwise I 
will inform against you and then you will not only 
get no more, but will lose even all you have now.” 

Ali Baba told him all he desired to know, even 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY ROBBERS 23 

the words he was to use to gain admission into the 
cave. 

Cassim arose the next morning long before the sun, 
and set out for the forest with ten mules bearing great 
chests which he intended to fill. He reached the rock 
in a short time, with little trouble found the entrance 
of the cavern, and standing before it pronounced the 
words, “Open, Sesame”. The door at once opened, 
and, when he was inside, closed upon him. He entered 
quickly and brought as many bags of gold as he 
could carry to the door of the cavern; but his thoughts 
were so full of his new wealth that he could not think 
of the necessary words to make it open. Instead of 
“Sesame,” he said, “Open, Barley,” and was amaxed 
to find the door remain shut. He named several sorts 
of grain, but still the door would not open. 

Cassim had not expected such an incident, and was 
so frightened that the more he endeavored to remem¬ 
ber the word “Sesame” the more confused his mind 
became. He had as much forgotten the word as if he 
had never heard it mentioned. He threw down the 
bags and walked distractedly up and down, regardless 
of the riches around about him. 

About noon the robbers visited their cave. At 
some distance from it they saw Cassim’s mules strag¬ 
gling about the rocks, and alarmed, they galloped at 
full speed to the cave. 

Cassim heard the noise of the horses’ feet, and, at 
once guessing that the robbers had come, resolved to 
make an effort to escape from them. As soon as he 
saw the door open, he rushed out and threw the 


24 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


leader, but could not escape the other robbers, who 
with their sabres put him to death. 

The first care of the robbers after this was to exam¬ 
ine the cave. They found all the bags that Cassim 
had carried to the door, but did not miss what Ali 
Baba had carried away previously. To warn and 
terrify all others who might know their secret, and 
should attempt the same thing, they agreed to cut his 
body into four quarters, to hang two on one side and 
two on the other, within the door of the cave. This 
done, they mounted their horses and set out to attack 
the caravans they might meet on the road. 

At night his wife became very uneasy when Cassim 
did not return. She ran to Ali Baba in alarm, saying 
that she feared some harm had come to him. Ali Baba 
comforted her with the thought that Cassim would not 
think it proper to enter the town until the night was 
pretty well advanced. During a wretched night 
Cassim’s wife became more and more frightened and 
bitterly repented her curiosity. In the early day she 
went again to Ali Baba, weeping profusely. 

Without waiting for her to ask him, Ali Baba set 
out with his three asses to seek for Cassim. He was 
seriously alarmed at finding blood spilt near the 
entrance of the cave, and took it for an ill omen; but 
when he had pronounced the words, and the door 
had opened, he was struck with horror at the dismal 
sight of his brother’s quartered body. Laying the 
body on one of his asses, he covered it over with wood. 
The other two asses he loaded with bags of gold, cov¬ 
ering them also with wood as before. Then bidding 


ALI BABA; OK THE FORTY ROBBERS 


25 


the door shut, he came away, but was cautious enough 
to stop for a time at the end of the forest, that he 
might not go into the town until nightfall. When 
he reached home, he drove the two asses loaded with 
• gold into his little yard for his wife to unload, while 
he led the other to his sister-in-law’s house. 

Ali Baba knocked at the door, which was opened 
by Morgiana, a clever slave, very tactful and able to 
overcome difficulties. When he came into the court, 
he unloaded the ass, and taking Morgiana aside, said : 

“ Mention to no one what I say to you. Your mas¬ 
ter’s body is contained in these two bundles. We 
must bury him as if he had died a natural death. Go, 
tell your mistress. I can trust you to manage this 
for me.” 

They placed the body in Cassim’s house. Ali Baba 
consoled the widow to the best of his ability and 
returned home. 

At the same time Morgiana went out to a druggist 
and asked for a certain kind of lozenge used in the 
most dangerous disorders. The druggist inquired who 
was ill. She answered with a sigh, ‘‘My good master 
Cassim himself. He can neither eat nor speak. ’ ’ The 
next morning she went again to the druggist, and, 
with tears in her eyes, asked for an essence which 
they used to give sick people only as a last resort. 

‘‘ Alas!’’ said she, “I am afraid that even this remedy 
will have no effect, and that I shall lose my good 
master. ’ ’ 

As all that day Ali Baba and his wife were seen 
going anxiously and sadly between their own house 


26 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and Cassim’s, no one was surprised later in the day, 
to hear Cassim’s wife shrieking, and Morgiana crying 
that her master was dead. 

Early the next morning the tactful servant went 
to an old cobbler and, giving him a piece of gold, said: 
“Baba Mustapha, bring your sewing materials and 
follow me. I must not tell you where we are going 
and shall blindfold you when we reach a certain 
place/* 

Because of his honor, Baba Mustapha hesitated to 
go; but, when Morgiana had persuaded him that there 
was nothing to fear, and had put another gold piece 
into his hand he went with her. At a certain place 
she bound his eyes with a cloth and thus led him to 
her master’s room, where she had put the body 
together. 

‘ ‘ Baba Mustapha, ’ ’ she said, ‘ ‘ you must quickly sew 
together the parts of this body, and when you have 
finished, I will give you more gold.” 

Morgiana kept her word, and, after blindfolding the 
old cobbler again, she took him to the place where she 
had first bound him, at the same time charging him 
with the utmost secrecy. She watched him until she 
could see him no longer, then returned home. 

At Cassim’s house she made all the preparations for 
the funeral with the assistance of the priest and other 
Mohammedan ministers. Then she followed in the 
procession to the burial, weeping and beating her 
breast. Meanwhile the widow of Cassim remained at 
home making doleful cries in company with her 
neighbors, who had come to mourn with her. 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY ROBBERS 


27 


Thus no one knew of the manner of Cassim’s death 
except his widow, Ali Baba, and Morgiana. A few 
days later Ali Baba moved to his sister-in-law’s house, 
carrying under shelter of night the money he had 
taken from the cave. As for Cassim’s warehouse, Ali 
Baba put it under the charge of his eldest son. 

While all this was taking place, the forty robbers 
again visited their cave in the forest. They were 
amazed to find the quartered body gone, together with 
some of their bags of gold. 

“We are certainly discovered,” said the captain, 
“and if we do not find and kill the man who knows 
our secret, we shall gradually lose all our riches, if 
not our lives.” 

The robbers all agreed that the captain was right. 

“Then,” said the captain, “one of you, the most 
daring and skillful, must spy the town. To avoid any 
treachery, the man who undertakes the task and fails, 
shall pay dearly—even with his life.” 

Immediately one of the robbers said that he would 
submit to their condition, and consider it an honor 
thus to expose his life in the service of the troop. 

The robber’s courage won great praise from the 
captain and his comrades. He at once disguised him¬ 
self, went into the town, and, walked up and down, till 
by chance he came to Baba Mustapha’s stall. 

The old cobbler was seated on his bench, about to 
begin his day’s work. The robber thus addressed 
him: 

“Honest man, you begin to work very early; how 
is it possible that one of your age can see so well ? I 


28 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


question whether you could see to stitch even if it 
were lighter.” 

“Though I am old, I have excellent eyes,” replied 
the cobbler. 11 1 sewed a dead body together in a place 
where I had less light than I have now.” 

“A dead body!” exclaimed the robber, with ap¬ 
parent amazement. 

“Yes, indeed,” answered Baba Mustapha; “but I 
will tell you no more.” 

“I do not want to learn your secret, but I should 
like to be shown the house where this extraordinary 
thing was done.” 

The robber put a piece of gold into the cobbler’s 
hand. 

“I could not do that, even if I were so disposed, 
for I was led to the house blindfolded, and later led 
from it in the same manner.” 

“Well,” replied the robber, “you may remember a 
little of the way, even if you were blindfolded. Come, 
let me blind your eyes at the same place. We will 
walk together. There is another piece of gold for 
you.” 

This proved too great a temptation to Baba Mus¬ 
tapha, who finally said that he would try to find the 
way. They soon reached the place where Morgiana 
had blindfolded him. Here the robber bound his eyes 
with a handkerchief, and the two walked on till the 
cobbler said: 

“I think I went no farther.” 

He had stopped in front of Cassim’s house, where 
Ali Baba now lived. The thief unbound the cob- 


ALI BABA; OB THE FORTY ROBBERS 


29 


bier’s eyes, but he was unable to tell whose house it 
was. Finding that he could learn no more from his 
guide, he let him go back to his work; then he marked 
the door with a piece of chalk and returned to the 
forest. 

Shortly after the two had gone, Morgiana came 
out of the house on some errand. Upon returning she 
saw the chalk mark on the door and stopped to exam¬ 
ine it. 

“What can be the meaning of this?” she said to 
herself. ‘ ‘ Somebody intends harm to my master, but 
I will guard against the worst.” Whereupon, she 
fetched a piece of chalk, and marked two or three 
doors on each side, in the same manner, saying nothing 
to her master or mistress. 

When the thief reached his comrades in the forest, 
he reported his good fortune in meeting the cobbler, 
and the success of his adventure. 

The captain at once urged them to set off for the 
town, well armed and disguised, and watch for an 
opportunity of slaying their enemy. This they did; 
but, when they came to the house which the spy had 
marked, they found the neighboring houses marked in 
the same way. The guide was much confused and 
could not explain, though he tried to convince his 
companions that he had marked but one. As he did 
not know, either, where the cobbler lived, there was 
nothing to do but to return to the forest, where the 
false guide was put to death. 

Then another of their gang offered to find their 
enemy. He, too, found Baba Mustapha and in like 


30 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


manner was led to the door of Cassim’s house. He 
more cautiously marked the door with red chalk, but 
in a less conspicuous place. 

But Morgiana’s quick eyes detected this, and, as 
before, she marked the other houses near by in the 
same manner. 

Again the robbers entered the town; and again the 
robbers could not distinguish the house. The captain 
in a rage led his men back to the forest, where the 
second offender gave himself up to death. 

The captain, feeling that he could not afford to 
lose any more of his men, decided to undertake the 
task himself. Like the others, he was led to the house 
by Baba Mustapha. He studied the house carefully 
until it was impressed upon his mind. He then re¬ 
turned to the forest and thus spoke to his companions: 

“Nothing now can prevent our full revenge. On 
the way there I thought out a plan.” 

He then lay his plan before them, and, as they 
approved of it, he ordered them to go into the village 
near and buy nineteen mules, with thirty-eight large 
leather jars, one full of oil, the others emptj^. The 
men did as they were ordered, and within two or 
three days, all preparations having been made, the 
nineteen mules were loaded with thirty-seven robbers 
in jars, and the jar of oil. The captain acted as their 
driver. They reached the town just at nightfall, as 
they had planned. As they approached Ali Baba’s 
door, they found him sitting there taking the fresh 
air after his supper. The captain stopped his mules 
and said: 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY-ROBBERS 31 

“I have brought some oil a great way, to sell at 
to-morrow’s market; and it is so late I do not know 
where to lodge. Will you allow me to pass the night 
with you?” 

Ali Baba did not recognize the captain in his dis¬ 
guise of oil-merchant, and bade him welcome. He 
gave directions for the care of the mules and called 
Morgiana to give his guest a good supper. He then 
retired to rest. 

Meanwhile, the captain of the robbers slipped into 
the yard where his jars had been placed for the night, 
and passing from one jar to another, he took off the 
lids, and told each robber that as soon as he threw 
some stones out of his window, they were not to fail 
to come out of the jars, and he would immediately 
join them. He then retired to his chamber, put out 
his light, and laid himself down in his clothes. 

The same night, while Morgiana was getting some 
food ready for breakfast, the lamp went out. As 
there was no more oil in the house, nor any candles, 
she did not know what to do. Abdalla, a slave, told 
her to go into the yard and take some oil out of the 
jars. She thanked the slave for the advice, took the 
oil-pot, and went into the yard. When she came near 
the first jar, the robber within said softly: “Is it 
time?” 

Naturally Morgiana was much surprised to find a 
man in the jar instead of the oil, but she at once made 
up her mind that she must keep silent, and lose no 
time if Ali Baba and the family were to escape danger. 
So she went from jar to jar, giving the same answer, 


32 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“Not yet, but presently.’’ At last she came to the 
oil-jar, filled her oil-pot, and returned to the kitchen. 
She then lighted her lamps, took a great kettle and 
filled it with oil from the oil-jar, set it on a large 
wood-fire, and as soon as it boiled poured enough into 
each jar to stifle and destroy the robber within. 

When this deed was done (a deed worthy of the 
courage of Morgiana), without any noise, as she had 
planned, she returned to the kitchen, put out the great 
fire, leaving only enough to make the broth for break¬ 
fast. Then, determined not to go to rest until she had 
seen what would go on, through the window, she sat 
down in silence to watch. 

She had not long to wait before the captain gave 
the signal by throwing some little stones upon the 
jars. Receiving no response, he repeated the signal 
two or three times. Much alarmed, he descended into 
the yard, and looking into the jars, one by one, he 
discovered that all his companions were dead. He at 
once knew that his plot had been found out; hence, 
enraged with despair because his plans had been frus¬ 
trated, he forced the lock of a door leading from the 
yard, and made his escape. Morgiana then went to 
bed, well pleased with her success. 

Ali Baba arose before day and went to the baths, 
ignorant of what had happened during the night. 
When he returned later, he was surprised to see the 
oil-jars and to find the mules still in the stables. Upon 
asking Morgiana the reason of it, she replied: 

“My good master, God preserve you and all your 
family; you will know better if you will follow me.” 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY ROBBERS 33 

Ali Baba followed her to the first jar, where she 
asked him to see if there was any oil. He looked in, 
but, upon seeing a man, started back in alarm. 

“Do not be afraid,” said Morgiana, “that man can 
do neither you nor anybody else any harm. He is 
dead. Now look into the other jars.” 

Ali Baba did as directed; and when he came to the 
sunken oil-jar at the end, he stood silent, looking alter¬ 
nately at the jars and at Morgiana with an amazed 
expression on his face. At last he could speak. “And 
what is become of the merchant?” 

“Merchant!” answered the girl; “he is as much 
one as I am.” 

She then told him all that had happened from the 
first chalk mark to the destruction of the robbers and 
the flight of the captain. 

Ali Baba was overwhelmed. “You have saved my 
life,” he said. “I give you your liberty until I can 
further reward you.” 

At the end of the garden, Ali Baba and his slave 
Abdalla. dug a trench large enough to hold the bodies 
of the robbers. Afterwards they hid the jars and 
weapons, and gradually sold the mules in the market. 

The captain of the forty robbers, who had returned 
to the cave, found life very miserable and lonely and 
unendurable. So he set himself to bring about the 
death of Ali Baba. In order to carry out his new 
plans, he returned to town disguised as a silk mer¬ 
chant and took a shop which happened to be opposite 
Cassim’s, where the son of Ali Baba now lived. He 
filled his shops with many fine silks and rich stuffs, 


34 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and sold them under the assumed name of Cogia 
Houssain. He was very civil to the merchants near 
him, and, having by chance discovered who his oppo¬ 
site neighbor was, he endeavored to win his good 
opinion and friendship. 

As Ali Baba’s son did not like to be indebted to his 
neighbor, he requested his father to invite the new 
merchant to dinner. The request was carried out, 
though at first the merchant hesitated as if to excuse 
himself. He gave as his reason that, as he had made 
a vow to abstain from salt, he hardly liked to sit at 
their table for that reason. 

“That need not trouble you,” answered Ali Baba. 
“I will bid the cook put no salt in anything she is 
cooking for the dinner.” 

Morgiana was greatly surprised at these orders and 
expressed a desire to see this peculiar man. To this 
end, she helped Abdalla carry up the dishes, and, as 
soon as she saw Cogia Houssain, recognized him as 
the captain of the robbers. Upon close observation, 
she discovered a dagger under his garment. Then 
Morgiana understood why the merchant would eat no 
salt with Ali Baba. He intended to kill him. But 
the faithful servant, resolving to save Ali Baba from 
fresh danger, made up her mind to a daring expedi¬ 
ent. She went to her room, dressed herself as a 
dancer, put on a handsome mask, and fastened a silver 
trimmed girdle around her waist, from which hung a 
dagger. When supper was over she said to Abdalla: 

“Fetch your tabor and let us divert our master 
and his guest.” 


ALI BABA; OR THE FORTY ROBBERS 35 

They presented themselves to their master, and 
Morgiana was bidden to dance. She commenced to 
move gracefully about, while Abdalla played on his 
tabor. Naturally a good dancer, she outdid herself 
on this occasion in graceful and fantastic motions. 
Cogia Houssain watched, fascinated, but feared that 
he would have no opportunity to carry out his fell 
purpose. After Morgiana had danced for some time, 
she approached Cogia Houssain, who, when he saw 
her coming toward him, took from his bosom a purse 
of money, intending to give her a trifle. As he did so, 
she swept round and buried her dagger in his heart. 

‘ ‘ Unhappy wretch ! ’ ’ exclaimed Ali Baba, shocked 
at the deed, “what have you done to ruin me and my 
family ? ’ ’ 

“It was to preserve, not to ruin you,” answered 
Morgiana. “See here,” she continued, opening Cogia 
Houssain’s garment and showing the dagger, “what 
an enemy was your guest. He is none other than the 
pretended oil-merchant and the captain of the forty 
robbers. When you told me he would eat no salt 
with you, I grew suspicious, and upon seeing him, I 
knew. What more would you have to persuade you ? 9 * 

Ali Baba embraced her, and said: “Twice have 
you saved my life. The first time I gave you your 
liberty and promised that I would some day give you 
further proofs of my gratitude. This I now do by 
making you my daughter-in-law.” Then turning to 
his son, “I believe you will not refuse Morgiana for 
your wife, for she has saved both my family and 
yours.” 


36 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


The son readily consented to his father’s wishes, 
for they coincided with his own. As soon as the body 
of the captain was secretly buried, Ali Baba cele¬ 
brated the marriage of his son and Morgiana with 
great ceremony. 

Fearing that the other two robbers were still alive, 
Ali Baba did not visit the robbers’ cave for a year. 
At the end of that time, finding that they did not seek 
to disturb him, he made another journey to the forest, 
went to the cave door and pronounced the words, 
“Open, Sesame.” The door opened, and, from the 
appearance of the cave, he saw that no one had been 
there since the captain’s last visit, and concluded 
that he alone knew the secret of the place. From this 
time he used as much of the gold as he needed. Later 
he took his son to the cave, and told him the secret, 
which he in turn handed down in the family. All 
used their good fortune wisely, and lived in great 
honor and splendor. 

The Arabian Nights. 

The Arabian Nights is a collection of nearly 300 oriental 
tales of unknown authorship, dating from the eighth century 
to the sixteenth and translated into the French, 1704, thence 
into the English, 1724. They are now found in all the prin¬ 
cipal languages of Europe and Asia, and their influence is 
felt in modern literature. In substance they express Eastern 
thought and manners; and, though they aim only to please 
and entertain the fancy, they display both wisdom and a 
knowledge of human nature. 

Suggested Readings: The Story of Abou Hassan, or the 
Sleeper Awakened; The Story of the Three Sisters; The Story 
of Sinbad the Sailor; The Story of Aladdin , or the Wonderful 
Lamp; The Story of Baba Abdallo. 


THE STORY OF HILPA AND SHALUM 


Hilpa was one of the hundred and fifty daughters 
of Zilpa, of the race of Cohu, by whom some of the 
learned think is meant Cain. She was exceedingly 
beautiful; and, when she was but a girl of threescore 
and ten years of age, received the addresses of sev¬ 
eral who made love to her. Among these were two 
brothers, Harpath and Shalum. Ilarpath being the 
first-born, was master of that fruitful region which 
lies at the foot of mount Tirzah, in the southern parts 
of China. Shalum (which is to say the planter, in 
the Chinese language) possessed all the neighboring 
hills, and that great range of mountains which goes 
under the name of Tirzah. Harpath was of a haughty, 
contemptuous spirit; Shalum was of a gentle dispo¬ 
sition, beloved both by God and man. 

It is said that among the antediluvian women, the 
daughters of Cohu had their minds wholly set upon 
riches; for which reason the beautiful Hilpa pre¬ 
ferred Harpath to Shalum, because of his numerous 
flocks and herds, that covered all the low country 
which runs along the foot of mount Tirzah, and is 
watered by several fountains and streams breaking 
out of the sides of that mountain. 

Harpath made so quick a despatch of his courtship, 
that he married Hilpa in the hundredth year of her 
age; and, being of an insolent temper, laughed to 
scorn his brother Shalum for having pretended to the 
37 


38 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

beautiful Hilpa, when he was master of nothing but a 
long chain of rocks and mountains. This so much pro¬ 
voked Shalum, that he is said to have cursed his 
brother in the bitterness of his heart, and to have 
prayed that one of his mountains might fall upon his 
head if ever he came within the shadow of it. 

From this time forward Harpath would never ven¬ 
ture out of the valleys, but came to an untimely end 
in the two hundred and fiftieth year of his age, being 
drowned in a river as he attempted to cross it. This 
river is called to this day, from his name who perished 
in it, the river Harpath; and, what is very remark¬ 
able, issues 6ut of one of those mountains which 
Shalum wished might fall upon his brother, when he 
cursed him in the bitterness of his heart. 

Hilpa was in the hundred and sixtieth year of her 
age at the death of her husband, having brought him 
but fifty children before he was snatched aw r ay, as 
has been already related. Many of the antediluvians 
made love to the young widow; though no one was 
thought so likely to succeed in her affections as her 
first lover Shalum, who renewed his court to her 
about ten years after the death of Harpath; for it 
was not thought decent in those days that a widow 
should be seen by a man within ten years after the 
decease of her husband. 

Shalum, falling into a deep melancholy, and re¬ 
solving to take away that objection which had been 
raised against him when he made his first addresses 
to Hilpa, began, immediately after her marriage with 
Harpath, to plant all that mountainous region which 


THE STORY OF HILPA AND SHALUM 


39 


fell to his lot in the division of this country. He 
knew how to adapt every plant to its proper soil, and 
is thought to have inherited many traditional secrets 
of that art from the first man. This employment 
turned at length to his profit as well as to his amuse¬ 
ment : his mountains were in a few years shaded with 
young trees, that gradually shot up into groves, woods, 
and forests, intermixed with walks, and lawns, and 
gardens; insomuch that the whole region, from a 
naked and desolate prospect, began now to look like 
a second Paradise. The pleasantness of the place, 
and the agreeable disposition of Shalum, who was 
reckoned one of the mildest and wisest of all who 
lived before the flood, drew into it multitudes of peo¬ 
ple, who were perpetually employed in the sinking of 
wells, the digging of trenches, and the hollowing of 
trees, for the better distribution of water through 
• every part of this spacious plantation. 

The habitations of Shalum looked every year more 
beautiful in the eyes of Hilpa, who, after the space 
of seventy autumns, was wonderfully pleased with 
the distant prospect of Shalum’s hills, which were 
then covered with innumerable tufts of trees and 
gloomy scenes, that gave a magnificence to the place, 
and converted it into one of the finest landscapes the 
eye of man could behold. 

The Chinese record a letter which Shalum is said 
to have written to Hilpa in the eleventh year of her 
widowhood. I shall here translate it, without depart¬ 
ing from that noble simplicity of sentiments and 
plainness of manners which appear in the original. 


40 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

Shalum was at this time one hundred and eighty 
years old, and Hilpa one hundred and seventy. 

“I, Shalum, Master of Mount Tirzah, to Hilpa, 
Mistress of the Valleys. 

In the 788th year of the creation. 

“What have I not suffered, 0 thou daughter of 
Zilpa, since thou gavest thyself away in marriage to 
my rival ? I grew weary of the light of the sun, and 
have been ever since covering myself with woods and 
forests. These three score and ten years have I 
bewailed the loss of thee on the top of mount Tirzah, 
and soothed my melancholy among a thousand gloomy 
shades of my own raising. My dwellings are at pres¬ 
ent as the garden of God; every part of them is filled 
with fruits, and flowers, and fountains. The whole 
mountain is perfumed for thy reception. Come up 
into it, 0 my beloved, and let us people this spot of 
the new world with a beautiful race of mortals; let 
us multiply exceedingly among these delightful 
shades, and fill every quarter of them with sons and 
daughters. Remember, 0 thou daughter of Zilpah, 
that the age of man is but a thousand years; that 
beauty is the admiration but of a few centuries. It 
flourishes as a mountain oak, or as a cedar on the top 
of Tirzah, which in three or four hundred years will 
fade away, and never be thought of by posterity, 
unless a young wood springs from its roots. Think 
well on this, and remember thy neighbor in the 
mountains. ’ , 


THE STORY OF HILPA AND SHALUM 


41 


The Sequel of the Story of Shalum and Hilpa 

The letter had so good an effect upon Hilpa, that 
she answered it in less than twelve months, after the 
following manner: 

“Hilpa, Mistress of the Valleys, to Shalum, 

Master of Mount Tirzah. 

In the 789th year of the creation. 

“What have I to do with thee, 0 Shalum? Thou 
praiseth Hilpa’s beauty, but art thou not secretly 
enamoured with the verdure of her meadows? Art 
thou not more affected with the prospect of her green 
valleys than thou wouldest be with the sight of her 
person? The lowings of my herds and the bleatings 
of my flocks make a pleasant echo in thy mountains, 
and sound sweetly in thy ears. What though I am 
delighted with the waving of thy forests, and those 
breezes of perfumes which flow from the top of Tirzah, 
are these like the riches of the valley? 

“I know thee, 0 Shalum; thou art more wise and 
happy than any of the sons of men. Thy dwellings 
are among the cedars; thou searchest out the diver¬ 
sity of soils, thou understandest the influences of the 
stars, and markest the change of seasons. Can a 
woman appear lovely in the eyes of such a one ? Dis¬ 
quiet me not, 0 Shalum; let me alone, that I may 
enjoy those goodly possessions which are fallen to my 
lot. Win me not by thy enticing words. May thy 
trees increase and multiply; mayest thou add wood 
to wood, and shade to shade; but tempt not Hilpa 


42 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


to destroy thy solitude, and make thy retirement 
populous. ’ ’ 

The Chinese say that a little time afterwards she 
accepted of a treat in one of the neighboring hills to 
which Shalum had invited her. This treat lasted for 
two years, and is said to have cost Shalum five hun¬ 
dred antelopes, two thousand ostriches, and a thou¬ 
sand tuns of milk; but what most of all recommended 
it, was that variety of delicious fruits and pot-herbs, 
in which no person then living could any way equal 
Shalum. 

He treated her in the bower which he had planted 
amidst the wood of nightingales. This wood was made 
up of such fruit-trees and plants as are most agree¬ 
able to the several kinds of singing birds; so that it 
had drawn into it all the music of the country, and 
was filled from one end of the year to the other with 
the most agreeable concert in season. 

He showed her every day some beautiful and sur¬ 
prising scene in this new region of woodlands; and, 
as by this means he had all the opportunities he could 
wish for of opening his mind to her, he succeeded so 
well that, upon her departure, she made him a kind 
of promise, and gave him her word to return him a 
positive answer in le$s than fifty years. 

She had not been long among her own people in the 
valleys, when she received new overtures, and at the 
same time a most splendid visit from Mishpach, who 
was a mighty man of old, and had built a great city, 
which he called after his own name. Every house 
was made for at least a thousand years; nay, there 


THE STORY OF HILPA AND SHALUM 43 

were some that were leased out for three lives; so that 
the quantity of stone and timber consumed in this 
building is scarce to be imagined by those who live in 
the present age of the world. This great man enter¬ 
tained her with the voice of musical instruments which 
had been lately invented, and danced before her to 
the sound of the timbrel. He also presented her with 
several domestic utensils wrought in brass and iron, 
which had been newly found out for the convenience 
of life. In the meantime Shalum grew very uneasy 
with himself, and was sorely displeased at Hilpa for 
the reception which she had given to Mishpach, inso¬ 
much that he never wrote to her or spoke of her 
during a whole revolution of Saturn ; but, finding that 
this intercourse went no further than a visit, he again 
renewed his addresses to her; who, during his long 
silence, is said very often to have cast a wishing eye 
upon mount Tirzah. 

Her mind continued wavering about twenty years 
longer between Shalum and Mishpach; for, though her 
inclinations favored the former, her interest pleaded 
very powerfully for the other. While her heart was 
in this unsettled condition, the following accident 
happened, which determined her choice. A high 
tower of wood that stood in the city of Mishpach hav¬ 
ing caught fire by a flash of lightning, in a few days 
reduced the whole town to ashes. Mishpach resolved 
to rebuild the place whatever it should cost him; and, 
having already destroyed all the timber of the coun¬ 
try, he was forced to have recourse to Shalum, whose 
forests were now two hundred years old. He pur- 


44 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


chased these woods with so many herds of cattle and 
flocks of sheep, and with such a vast extent of fields 
and pastures, that Shalum was now grown more 
wealthy than Mishpach; and therefore appeared so 
charming in the eyes of Zilpah’s daughter, that she 
no longer refused him in marriage. On the day in 
which he brought her up into the mountains, he raised 
a most prodigious pile of cedar, and of every sweet¬ 
smelling wood, which reached above three hundred 
cubits in height. He also cast into the pile bundles of 
myrrh and sheaves of spikenard, enriching it with 
every spicy shrub, and making it fat with the gums 
of his plantations. This was the burnt-offering which 
Shalum offered in the day of his espousals: the smoke 
of it ascended up to heaven, and filled the whole 
country with incense and perfume. 

Joseph Addison, 1612-1719. 

Joseph Addison, essayist, poet, journalist, scholar, statesman, 
social reformer, the man whose brightness was conspicuous 
even in the brilliant age of Queen Anne, was the son of an 
English clergyman. After graduating from Oxford he made 
a continental tour in order to prepare himself for State diplo¬ 
matic service, and to improve his social and literary tastes. 
During his political career he was twice secretary to the lord- 
lieutenant of Ireland, a Member of Parliament, and Secretary 
of State. The last position was the result of his popularity, 
unquestionable honor, and literary fame. Later, he resigned 
the position, accepted a pension, and retired to a literary 
occupation. He died at Kensington. 

Though not a great critic, Addison was a 11 representative * ’ 
one. Moreover, he did much, probably more than any other 
man of his time, toward creating a wide and appreciative 


THE STORY OF HILPA AND SHALUM 


45 


public for literature. His most interesting productions were 
the critical and reflective essays and sketches in the Tatler 
and Spectator. His topics were of innumerable variety and of 
moral tone. A large number were good-humoured satires on 
social peculiarities and on human character. Like Shakes¬ 
peare’s plays, they were a mirror in which the world might 
see itself. 

Addison’s English was pure and elegant; his style light 
and gay, yet dignified; his philosophy sufficient to attract and 
interest various types of mind. The most famous criticism of him 
is that offered by Dr. Johnson: “Whoever wishes to attain an 
English style, familiar but not coarse, and elegant but not 
ostentatious, must give his days and nights to the volumes of 
Addison ’ ’. 

Suggested Readings: Sir Roger de Coverly Papers, The 
Vision of Mirza, The Frozen Words, Constantia and Theodosius. 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


Mankind, says a Chinese manuscript, which my 
friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain 
to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their 
meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, 
just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period 
is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius 
in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, 
where he designates a kind of golden age by the term 
Cho-fang, literally the Cooks’ Holiday. The manu¬ 
script goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or 
rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother), 
was accidentally discovered in the manner following: 
The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods 
one morning, as his manner was, to collect mast for 
his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son 
Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who, being fond of play¬ 
ing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, 
let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which, 
kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every 
part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to 
ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antedi¬ 
luvian makeshift of a building, you may* think it), 
what was of much more importance, a fine litter of 
new-farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, per¬ 
ished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all 
over the East, from the remotest period that we read 
of. Bo-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you 
may think, not so much for the sake of the tenement, 
46 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


47 


which his father and he could easily build up again 
with a few dry branches, and the labor of an hour 
or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. 
While he was thinking what he should say to his 
father, and wringing his hands over the smoking rem¬ 
nants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odor 
assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had 
before experienced. What could it proceed from?— 
not from the burnt cottage—he had smelt that smell 
before—indeed, this was by no means the first acci¬ 
dent of the kind which had occurred through the 
negligence of this unlucky young firebrand. Much 
less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, 
or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same 
time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what 
to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if 
there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fin¬ 
gers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby 
fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the 
scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and 
for the first time in his life (in the world’s life indeed, 
for before him no man had known it) he tasted— 
crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It 
did not burn him so much now; still he licked his 
fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length 
broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig 
that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so delicious; 
and, surrendering himself up to the new-born pleasure, 
he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched 
skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down 
his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered 


48 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory 
cudgel, and finding how affairs stood, began to rain 
blows upon the young rogue’s shoulders, as thick as 
hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if 
they had been flies. The tickling pleasure, which he 
experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him 
quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in 
those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but 
he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly 
made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sen¬ 
sible of his situation, something like the following 
dialogue ensued: 

“You graceless whelp, what have you got there de¬ 
vouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me 
down three houses with your dog’s tricks, and be 
hanged to you! but you must be eating fire, and I 
know not what. What have you got there, I 
say ? ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ 0 father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how 
nice the burnt pig eats. ’ ’ 

The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed 
his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should 
beget a son that should eat burnt pig. 

Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since 
morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rend¬ 
ing it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force 
into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, “Eat, eat, 
eat the burnt pig, father, only taste, 0 Lord! ’ ’—with 
such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the 
while as if he would choke. 

Ho-ti trembled in every joint while he grasped the 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


49 


abominable thing, wavering whether he should not 
put his son to death for an unnatural young monster, 
when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had 
done his son’s, and applying the same remedy to 
them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavor, which, 
make what sour mouths he would for a pretence, 
proved not altogether displeasing to him. In conclu¬ 
sion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both 
father and son fairly sat down to the mess, and never 
left off till they had dispatched all that remained of 
the litter. 

Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret 
escape, for the neighbors would certainly have stoned 
them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could 
think of improving upon the good meat which God 
had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got 
about. It was observed that Ho-ti’s cottage was 
' burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing 
but fires from this time forward. Some would break 
out in broad day, others in the night-time. As often 
as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to 
be in a blaze; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more 
remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to 
grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length 
they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, 
and father and son summoned to take their trial at 
Pekin, then an inconsiderable assize town. Evidence 
was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in 
court, and verdict about to be pronounced, when the 
foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt 
pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be 


50 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


handed into the box. He handled it, and they all 
handled it; and burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and 
his father had done before them, and nature prompt¬ 
ing to each of them the same remedy, against the 
face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which 
judge had ever given,—to the surprise of the whole 
court, townsfolk, strangers, reporters, and all pres¬ 
ent,—without leaving the box, or any manner of con¬ 
sultation whatever, they brought in a simultaneous 
verdict of Not Guilty. 

The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the 
manifest iniquity of the decision; and, when the court 
was dismissed, went privily and bought up all the 
pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few 
days his Lordship’s town-house was observed to be on 
fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing 
to be seen but fire in every direction. Fuel and pigs 
grew enormously dear all over the district. The in¬ 
surance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built 
slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that 
the very science of architecture would in no long time 
be lost to the world. Thus the custom of firing houses 
continued, till in process of time, says my manu¬ 
script, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a dis¬ 
covery, that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other 
animal, might be cooked (burnt, as they called it) 
without the necessity of consuming a whole house to 
dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. 
Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or 
two later; I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow 
degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


51 


and seemingly the most obvious, arts make their way 
among mankind. 

Without placing too implicit faith in the account 
above given, it must be agreed that, if a worthy pre¬ 
text for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses 
on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in 
favor of any culinary object, that pretext and excuse 
might be found in roast pig. 

Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis, 1 
I will maintain it to be the most delicate —princeps 
obsoniorum. 2 

I speak not of your grown porkers—things between 
pig and pork—those hobbledehoys—but a young and 
tender suckling—under a moon old—guiltless as yet 
of the sty—with no original speck of the amor immun- 
ditiae, 3 the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet 
manifest—his voice as yet not broken, but something 
between a childish treble and a grumble—the mild 
forerunner or prceludium of a grunt. 

He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our 
ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled—but what a 
sacrifice of the exterior tegument! 

There is no flavor comparable, I will contend, to 
that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over¬ 
roasted, crackling, as it is well called,—the very 
teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this 
banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resistance— 
with the adhesive oleaginous—0 call it not fat! but 
an indefinable sweetness growing up to it—the ten- 


1. World of eatables. 

2. Foremost of viands. 


3. Love of uncleanness. 


52 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


der blossoming of fat—fat cropped in the bud—taken 
in the shoot—in the first innocence—the cream and 
quintessence of the child-pig’s yet pure food—the 
lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna—or, rather, 
fat and lean (if it must be so) so blended and running 
into each other, that both together make but one am- 
brosian result, or common substance. 

Behold him while he is “doing”—it seemeth rather 
a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is 
so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the 
string! Now he is just done. To see the extreme sen¬ 
sibility of that tender age! he hath wept out his pretty 
eyes—radiant jellies—shooting stars. 

See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he 
lieth!—wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up 
to the grossness and imbecility which too often accom¬ 
pany maturer swinehood ? Ten to one he would have 
proved a glutton, a sloven, an obstinate, disagreeable 
animal—wallowing in all manner of filthy conversa¬ 
tion—from these sins he is happily snatched away— 

“Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, 

Death came with timely care f, 1 — 

his memory is odoriferous—no clown curseth, while 
his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon—no coal- 
heaver bolteth him in reeking sausages—he hath a 
fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious 
epicure—and for such a tomb might be content to 
die. 

He is the best of sapors. Pine-apple is great. 

1. From Coleridge’s Epitaph on an Infant. 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 53 

She is indeed almost too transcendent—a delight, if 
not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender- 
conscienced person would do well to pause—too rav¬ 
ishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth 
the lips that approach her—like lovers’ kisses, she 
biteth—she is a pleasure bordering on pain from the 
fierceness and insanity of her relish—but she stop- 
peth at the palate—she meddleth not with the ap¬ 
petite—and the coarsest hunger might barter her 
consistently for a mutton-chop. 

Pig—let me speak his praise—is no less provoca¬ 
tive of the appetite, than he is satisfactory to the 
criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man 
may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not 
his mild juices. 

Unlike to mankind’s mixed characters, a bundle of 
virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not 
to be unravelled without hazard, he is—good through¬ 
out. No part of him is better or worse than an¬ 
other. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, 
all around. He is the least envious of banquets. He 
is all neighbors’ fare. 

I am one of those who freely and ungrudgingly 
impart a share of the good things of this life which 
fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a 
friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my 
friend’s pleasures, his relishes, and proper satisfac¬ 
tion, as in mine own. “Presents,” I often say, “en¬ 
dear Absents.” 'Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, 
barn-door chickens (those “tame villatic fowl”), 
capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense 


54 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as 
it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop 
must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, 
“give every thing. ’ ’ I make my stand upon pig. 
Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good 
flavors, to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house 
slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I know 
not what), a blessing so particularly adapted, predes¬ 
tined, I may say, to my individual palate—it argues 
an insensibility. 

I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at 
school. My good old aunt, who never parted from 
me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweet¬ 
meat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dis¬ 
missed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, 
fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was 
over London Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar saluted 
me (I have no doubt, at this time of day, that he 
was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console him 
with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the very 
coxcombry of charity, sclioolboy-like, I made him a 
present of—the whole cake! I walked on a little, 
buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet 
soothing of self-satisfaction; but, before I had got to 
the end of the bridge, my better feelings returned, 
and I burst into tears, thinking how ungrateful I had 
been to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift 
away to a stranger that I had never seen before, and 
who might be a bad man for aught I knew; and then 
I thought of the pleasure my aunt would be taking in 
thinking that I—I myself, and not another—would 


A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG 


55 


eat her nice cake—and what should I say to her the 
next time I saw her—how naughty I was to part with 
her pretty present!—and the odor of that spicy cake 
came back upon my recollection, and the pleasure and 
the curiosity I had taken in seeing her make it, and 
her joy when she sent it to the oven, and how disap¬ 
pointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of 
it in my mouth at last—and I blamed my impertinent 
spirit of alms-giving, and out-of-place hypocrisy of 
goodness; and above all I wished never to see the face 
again of that insidious, good-for-nothing, old gray 
imposter. 

Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacri¬ 
ficing these tender victims. We read of pigs whipt to 
death with something of a shock, as we hear of any 
other obsolete custom. The age of discipline is gone 
by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosoph¬ 
ical light merely) what effect this process might have 
towards intenerating and dulcifying a substance, nat¬ 
urally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. 
It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be cautious, 
while we condemn the inhumanity, how we censure 
the wisdom of the practice. It might impart a gusto. 

I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the 
young students, when I was at St. Omer’s, and main¬ 
tained with much learning and pleasantry on both 
sides, “Whether, supposing that the flavor of a pig 
who obtained his death by whipping (per flagella- 
tionem extremam 1 ) superadded a pleasure upon the 
palate of a man more intense than any possible suf- 

1. By a tremendous beating. 


56 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


fering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified 
in using that method of putting the animal to death ? ’ ’ 
I forget the decision. 

His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a. few 
bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and 
a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I 
beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your 
whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff 
them with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic; 
you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than 
they are—but consider, he is a weakling—a flower. 

Charles Lamb, 1775-1834. 

The greatest humorist, moral teacher, and aesthetic critic of 
the early nineteenth century was Charles Lamb. Born in Lon¬ 
don, reared within the precincts of the Inner Temple, educated 
at Christ’s Hospital, employed for thirty-three years as clerk 
with the East India Company, retired on a pension at the age 
of fifty, died at Edmonton,—this is the brief story of his life. 

As a writer his style is somewhat quaint, though natural and 
simple. His writings reveal his own strength of character, 
sympathy, and childlike simplicity. Mr. Fitzgerald says of 
him: “He in truth seems only to be thinking aloud, and we 
are behind the curtains listening. ’ ’ His writings include 
poems, a romance, literary criticisms, criticisms of life. The 
best known of these are Tales from Shakespeare, written in 
collaboration with his sister, and The Essays of Elia. The 
Essays, which cover a variety of subjects, are mere sketches, 
the expression of his fancy and meditation; hence gay or 
serious, brilliant or tender, they are strongly individual, 
strangely human, belonging to the spiritual awakening of the 
nineteenth century. 

Suggested Reading: Praise of Chimney Sweepers, Old 
China, Dream Children, Mrs. Battle’s Opinions on Whist, My 
Delations, Popular Fallacies, Christ’s Hospital. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 

A TRAVELLER’S TALE 

On the summit of one of the heights of the Oden- 
wald, a wild and romantic tract of Upper Germany, 
that lies not far from the confluence of the Main and 
the Rhine, there stood, many, many years since, the 
Castle of the Baron Yon Landshort. It is now quite 
fallen to decay, and almost buried among beech trees 
and dark firs; above which, however, its old watch- 
tower may still be seen struggling, like the former 
possessor I have mentioned, to carry a high head, and 
look down upon a neighboring country. 

The baron was a dry branch of the great family of 
Katzenellenbogen 1 and inherited the relics of the 
property, and all the pride, of his ancestors. Though 
the warlike disposition of his predecessors had much 
impaired the family possessions, yet the baron still 
endeavored to keep up some show of former state. 
The times were peaceable, and the German nobles, in 
general, had abandoned their inconvenient old castles, 
perched like eagles’ nests among the mountains, and 
had built more convenient residences in the valleys; 
still the baron remained proudly drawn up in his little 
fortress, cherishing with hereditary inveteracy all the 
old family feuds; so that he was on ill terms with 
some of his nearest neighbors, on account of disputes 
that had happened between their great-great-grand¬ 
fathers. 


1. Cat’s elbow. 


57 


58 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS - 

The baron had but one child, a daughter; but Na¬ 
ture, when she grants but one child, always compen¬ 
sates by making it a prodigy; and so it was with the 
daughter of the baron. All the nurses, gossips, and 
country cousins assured her father that she had not 
her equal for beauty in all Germany; and who should 
know better than they? She had, moreover, been 
brought up with great care, under the superintendence 
of two maiden aunts, who had spent some years of 
their early life at one of the little German courts, and 
were skilled in all the branches of knowledge necessary 
to the education of a fine lady. Under their instruc¬ 
tions, she became a miracle of accomplishments. By 
the time she was eighteen she could embroider to 
admiration, and had worked whole histories of the 
saints in tapestry, with such strength of expression in 
their countenances that they looked like so many souls 
in purgatory. She could read without great difficulty, 
and had spelled her way through several church 
legends, and almost all the chivalric wonders of the 
Heldenbuch. 1 She had even made considerable pro¬ 
ficiency in writing; could sign her own name without 
missing a letter, and so legibly, that her aunts could 
read it without spectacles. She excelled in making 
little elegant good-for-nothing lady-like knick-knacks 
of all kinds; was versed in the most abstruse dancing 
of the day; played a number of airs on the harp and 
guitar; and knew all the tender ballads of the Minnie- 
lieders 2 by heart. 


1. Book of Heroes. A collection of German epic poems. 

2. German love singers of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. 


•THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


59 


Her aunts, too, having been great flirts and 
coquettes in their younger days, were admirably cal¬ 
culated to be vigilant guardians and strict censors of 
the conduct of their niece; for there is no duenna so 
rigidly prudent, and inexorably decorous, as a super¬ 
annuated coquette. She was rarely suffered out of 
their sight; never went beyond the domains of the 
castle, unless well attended, or rather well watched; 
had continual lectures read to her about strict deco¬ 
rum and implicit obedience; and, as to the men— 
pah! she was taught to hold them at such distance 
and distrust, that, unless properly authorized, she 
would not have cast a glance upon the handsomest 
cavalier in the world—no, not if he were even dying 
at her feet. 

The good effects of this system were wonderfully 
apparent. The young lady was a pattern of docility 
and correctness. While others were wasting their 
sweetness in the glare of the world, and liable to be 
plucked and thrown aside by every hand, she was 
coyly blooming into fresh and lovely womanhood, 
under the protection of those immaculate spinsters, 
like a rose-bud blushing forth among guardian thorns. 
Her aunts looked upon her with pride and exultation, 
and vaunted that, though all the other young ladies 
in the world might go astray, yet, thank Heaven, 
nothing of the kind could happen to the heiress of 
Katzenellenbogen. 

But, however scantily the Baron Von Landshort 
might be provided with children, his household was 
by no means a small one, for Providence had enriched 


60 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

him with abundance of poor relations. They, one and 
all, possessed the affectionate disposition common to 
humble relatives; were wonderfully attached to the 
baron, and took every possible occasion to come in 
swarms and enliven the castle. All family festivals 
were commemorated by these good people at the 
baron’s expense; and, when they were filled with good 
cheer, they would declare that there was nothing on 
earth so delightful as these family meetings, these 
jubilees of the heart. 

The baron, though a small man, had a large soul, 
and it swelled with satisfaction at the consciousness of 
being the greatest man in the little world about him. 
He loved to tell long stories about the stark old war¬ 
riors whose portraits looked grimly down from the 
walls around, and he found no listeners equal to those 
who fed at his expense. He was much given to the 
marvelous, and a firm believer in all those supernat¬ 
ural tales with which every mountain and valley in 
Germany abounds. The faith of his guests exceeded 
even his own: they listened to every tale of wonder 
with open eyes and mouth, and never failed to be 
astonished, even though repeated for the hundredth 
time. Thus lived the Baron Yon Landshort, the 
oracle of his table, the absolute monarch of his 
little territory, and happy, above all things, in the 
persuasion that he was the wisest man of the 
age. 

At the time of which my story treats, there was 
a great family gathering at the castle, on an affair of 
the utmost importance: it was to receive the destined 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


61 


bridegroom of the baron’s daughter. A negotiation 
had been carried on between the father and an old 
nobleman of Bavaria, to unite the dignity of their 
houses by the marriage of their children. The pre¬ 
liminaries had been conducted with proper punctilio. 
The young people were betrothed without seeing each 
other, and the time was appointed for the marriage 
ceremony. The young Count Yon Altenburg had 
been recalled from the army for the purpose, and was 
actually on his way to the baron’s to receive his bride. 
Missives had even been received from him, from 
Wurtzburg, where he was accidentally detained, men¬ 
tioning the day and hour when he might be expected 
to arrive. 

The castle was in a tumult of preparation to give 
him a suitable welcome. The fair bride had been 
decked out with uncommon care. The two aunts had 
superintended her toilet, and quarrelled the whole 
morning about every article of her dress. The young 
lady had taken advantage of their contest to follow 
the bent of her own taste; and fortunately it was a 
good one. She looked as lovely as youthful bride¬ 
groom could desire; and the flutter of expectation 
heightened the lustre of her charms. 

The suffusions that mantled her face and neck, the 
gentle heaving of the bosom, the eye now and then 
lost in reverie, all betrayed the soft tumult that was 
going on in her little heart. The aunts were continu¬ 
ally hovering around her; for maiden aunts are apt 
to take great interest in affairs of this nature: they 
were giving her a world of staid counsel how to deport 


62 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


herself, what to say, and in what manner to receive 
the expected lover. 

The baron was no less busied in preparations. He 
had, in truth, nothing exactly to do; but he was nat¬ 
urally a fuming, bustling little man, and could not 
remain passive when all the world was in a hurry. He 
worried from top to bottom of the castle, with an air 
of infinite anxiety; he continually called the servants 
from their work to exhort them to be diligent; and 
buzzed about every hall and chamber, as idly restless 
and importunate as a blue-bottle fly of a warm sum¬ 
mer’s day. 

In the meantime the fatted calf had been killed; the 
forests had rung with the clamor of the huntsmen; the 
kitchen was crowded with good cheer; the cellars had 
yielded up whole oceans of Rhein-wein and Ferne- 
wein, and even the great Heidelburg tun had been laid 
under contribution. Everything was ready to receive 
the distinguished guest with Sous und Braus 1 in the 
true spirit of German hospitality—but the guest 
delayed to make his appearance. Hour rolled after 
hour. The sun, that had poured his downward rays 
upon the rich forest of the Odenwald, now just 
gleamed along the summits of the mountains. The 
baron mounted the highest tower, and strained his 
eyes in hopes of catching a distant sight of the count 
and his attendants. Once he thought he beheld them: 
the sound of horns came floating from the valley, pro¬ 
longed by the mountain echoes; a number of horse- 

1. Riot and noise, gayety and cheerfulness, indicative of German 
hospitality. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 53 

men were seen far below, slowly advancing along the 
road; Tmt, when they had nearly reached the foot of 
the mountain, they suddenly struck off in a different 
direction. The last ray of sunshine departed—the 
bats began to flit by in the twilight—the road grew 
dimmer and dimmer to the view; and nothing appeared 
stirring in it, but now and then a peasant lagging 
homeward from his labor. 

While the old castle of Landshort was in this state 
of perplexity, a very interesting scene was transacting 
in a different part of the Odenwald. 

The young Count Yon Altenburg was tranquilly 
pursuing his route in that sober jog-trot way in which 
a man travels toward matrimony when his friends 
have taken all the trouble and uncertainty of court¬ 
ship off his hands, and a bride is waiting for him, as 
certainly as a dinner, at the end of his journey. He 
had encountered at Wurtzburg a youthful companion 
in arms, with whom he had seen some service on the 
frontiers, Herman Yon Starkenfaust, one of the stout¬ 
est hands and worthiest hearts of German chivalry, 
who was now returning from the army. His father’s 
castle was not far distant from the old fortress of 
Landshort, although a hereditary feud rendered the 
families hostile, and strangers to each other. 

In the warm-hearted moment of recognition, the 
young friends related all their past adventures and 
fortunes, and the count gave the whole history of his 
intended nuptials with a young lady whom he had 
never seen, but of whose charms he had received the 
most enrapturing descriptions. 


64 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


As the route of the friends lay in the same direc¬ 
tion, they agreed to perform the rest of their journey 
together; and, that they might do it the more lei¬ 
surely, set off from Wurtzburg at an early hour, the 
count having given directions for his retinue to follow 
and overtake him. 

They beguiled their wayfaring with recollections of 
their military scenes and adventures; but the count 
was apt to be a little tedious, now and then, about 
the reputed charms of his bride, and the felicity that 
awaited him. 

In this way they had entered among the mountains 
of the Odenwald, and were traversing one of its most 
lonely and thickly wooded passes. It is well known 
that the forests of Germany have always been as much 
infested by robbers as its castles by spectres; and, at 
this time, the former were particularly numerous, 
from the hordes of disbanded soldiers wandering about 
the country. It will not appear extraordinary, there¬ 
fore, that the cavaliers were attacked by a gang of 
these stragglers, in the midst of the forest. They 
defended themselves with bravery, but were nearly 
overpowered, when the count’s retinue arrived to 
their assistance. At sight of them the robbers fled, 
but not until the count had received a mortal wound. 
He was slowly and carefully conveyed back to the 
city of Wurtzburg, and a friar summoned from a 
neighboring convent, who was famous for his skill in 
administering to both soul and body. But half of his 
skill was superfluous; the moments of the unfortunate 
count were numbered. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGKOOM 


65 


With his dying breath he entreated his friend to 
repair instantly to the castle of Landshort, and ex¬ 
plain the fatal cause of his not keeping his appoint¬ 
ment with his bride. Though not the most ardent of 
lovers, he was one of the most punctilious of men, and 
appeared earnestly solicitous that his mission should 
be speedily and courteously executed. “Unless this 
is done,” said he, “I shall not sleep quietly in my 
grave!” He repeated these last words with peculiar 
solemnity. A request, at a moment so impressive, 
admitted no hesitation. Starkenfaust endeavored to 
soothe him to calmness; promised faithfully to exe¬ 
cute his wish, and gave him his hand in solemn pledge. 
The dying man pressed it in acknowledgment, but 
soon lapsed into delirium—raved about his bride—his 
engagements—his plighted word; ordered his horse, 
that he might ride to the castle of Landshort, and ex¬ 
pired in the fancied act of vaulting into the saddle. 

Starkenfaust bestowed a sigh and a soldier’s tear 
on the untimely fate of his comrade, and then pon¬ 
dered on the awkward mission he had undertaken. 
His heart was heavy, and his head perplexed; for he 
was to present himself an unbidden guest among hos¬ 
tile people, and to damp their festivity with tidings 
fatal to their hopes. Still there were certain whisper¬ 
ings of curiosity in his bosom to see this far-famed 
beauty of Katzenellenbogen, so cautiously shut up 
from the world; for he was a passionate admirer of 
the sex, and there was a dash of eccentricity and 
enterprise in his character that made him fond of all 
singular adventure. 


66 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Previous to his departure, he made all due arrange¬ 
ments with the holy fraternity of the convent for the 
funeral solemnities of his friend, who was to be buried 
in the cathedral of Wurtzburg, near some of his illus¬ 
trious relatives; and the mourning retinue of the 
count took charge of his remains. 

It is now high time that we should return to the 
ancient family of Katzenellenbogen, who were impa¬ 
tient for their guest, and still more for their dinner; 
and to the worthy little baron, whom we left airing 
himself on the watch-tower. 

Night closed in, but still no guest arrived. The 
baron descended from the tower in despair. The 
banquet, which had been delayed from hour to hour, 
could no longer be postponed. The meats were already 
overdone, the cook in an agony; and the whole house¬ 
hold had the look of a garrison that had been reduced 
by famine. The baron was obliged reluctantly to 
give orders for the feast without the presence of the 
guest. All were seated at table, and just on the point 
of commencing, when the sound of a horn from with¬ 
out the gate gave notice of the approach of a stranger. 
Another long blast filled the old courts of the castle 
with its echoes, and was answered by the warder from 
the walls. The baron hastened to receive his future 
son-in-law. 

The drawbridge had been let down, and the stranger 
was before the gate. He was a tall, gallant cavalier, 
mounted on a black steed. His countenance was pale, 
but he had a beaming, romantic eye, and an air of 
stately melancholy. The baron was a little mortified 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


67 


that he should have come in this simple, solitary style. 
His dignity for a moment was ruffled, and he felt 
disposed to consider it a want of proper respect for 
the important occasion and the important family 
with which he was to be connected. He pacified him 
self, however, with the conclusion that it must have 
been youthful impatience which had induced him thus 
to spur on sooner than his attendants. 

“Iam sorry,” said the stranger, “to break in upon 
you thus unseasonably”— 

Here the baron interrupted him with a world of 
compliments and greeting; for, to tell the truth, he 
prided himself upon his courtesy and eloquence. The 
stranger attempted, once or twice, to stem the torrent 
of words, but in vain; so he bowed his head and suf¬ 
fered it to flow on. By the time the baron had come 
to a pause, they had reached the inner court of the 
castle; and the stranger was again about to speak, 
when he was once more interrupted by the appearance 
of the female part of the family, leading forth the 
shrinking and blushing bride. He gazed on her for 
a moment as one entranced; it seemed as if his whole 
soul beamed forth in the gaze, and rested upon that 
lovely form. One of the maiden aunts whispered 
something in her ear; she made an effort to speak; 
her moist blue eye was timidly raised, gave a shy 
glance of inquiry on the stranger, and was cast again 
to the ground. The words died away; but there was 
a sweet smile playing about her lips, and a soft dim¬ 
pling of the cheek, that showed her glance had not 
been unsatisfactory. It was impossible for a girl of 


68 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


the fond age of eighteen, highly predisposed for love 
and matrimony, not to be pleased with so gallant a 
cavalier. 

The late hour at which the guest had arrived left no 
time for. parley. The baron was peremptory, and 
deferred all particular conversation until the morn¬ 
ing, and led the way to the untasted banquet. 

It was served up in the great hall of the castle. 
Around the walls hung the hard-favored portraits of 
the heroes of the house of Katzenellenbogen, and the 
trophies which they had gained in the field and in the 
chase. Hacked corselets, splintered jousting spears, 
and tattered banners were mingled with the spoils of 
sylvan warfare; the jaws of the wolf and the tusks of 
the boar grinned horribly among cross-bows and bat¬ 
tle-axes, and a huge pair of antlers branched immedi¬ 
ately over the head of the youthful bridegroom. 

The cavalier took but little notice of the company 
or the entertainment. He scarcely tasted the banquet, 
but seemed absorbed in admiration of his bride. He 
conversed in a low tone, that could not be overheard 
—for the language of love is never loud; but where 
is the female ear so dull that it cannot catch the soft¬ 
est whisper of the lover? There was a mingled ten¬ 
derness and gravity in his manner that appeared to 
have a powerful effect upon the young lady. Her 
color came and went, as she listened with deep atten¬ 
tion. Now and then she made some blushing reply, 
and, when his eye was turned away, she would steal a 
sidelong glance at his romantic countenance, and 
heave a gentle sigh of tender happiness. It was evi- 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


69 


dent that the young couple were completely enam¬ 
oured. The aunts, who were deeply versed in the 
mysteries of the heart, declared that they had fallen 
in love with each other at first*sight. 

The feast went on merrily, or at least noisily, for 
the guests were all blessed with those keen appetites 
that attend upon light purses and mountain air. The 
baron told his best and longest stories, and never had 
he told them so well, or with such great effect. If 
there was anything marvelous, his auditors were lost 
in astonishment; and if anything facetious, they were 
sure to laugh exactly in the right place. The baron, 
it is true, like most great men, was too dignified to 
utter any joke but a dull one; it was always enforced, 
however, by a bumper of excellent Hochheimer; and 
even a dull joke, at one’s own table, served up with 
jolly old wine, is irresistible. Many good things were 
said by poorer and keener wits, that would not bear 
repeating, except on similar occasions; many sly 
speeches whispered in ladies’ ears, that almost con¬ 
vulsed them with suppressed laughter; and a song or 
two roared out by a poor, but merry and broad-faced 
cousin of the baron, that absolutely made the maiden 
aunts hold up their fans. 

Amidst all this revelry, the stranger guest main¬ 
tained a most singular and unseasonable gravity. His 
countenance assumed a deeper cast of dejection as the 
evening advanced; and, strange as it may appear, even 
the baron’s jokes seemed only to render him the more 
melancholy. At times he was lost in thought, and at 
times there was a perturbed and restless wandering of 


70 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

the eye that bespoke a mind but ill at ease. His con¬ 
versation with the bride became more and more ear¬ 
nest and mysterious. Lowering clouds began to steal 
over the fair serenity ef her brow, and tremors to run 
through her tender frame. 

All this could not escape the notice of the company. 
Their gayety was chilled by the unaccountable gloom 
of the bridegroom; their spirits were infected; whis¬ 
pers and glances were interchanged, accompanied by 
shrugs and dubious shakes of the head. The song and 
the laugh grew less and less frequent; there were 
dreary pauses in the conversation, which were at 
length succeeded by wild tales, and supernatural le¬ 
gends. One dismal story produced another still more 
dismal, and the baron nearly frightened some of the 
ladies into hysterics with the history of the goblin 
horseman that carried away the fair Leonora, 1 a 
dreadful, but true story, which has since been put into 
excellent verse, and is read and believed by all the 
world. 

The bridegroom listened to this tale with profound 
attention. He kept his eyes steadily fixed on the 
baron, and, as the story drew to a close, began grad¬ 
ually to rise from his seat, growing taller and taller, 
until, in the baron’s entranced eye, he seemed almost 
to tower into a giant. The moment the tale was fin¬ 
ished, he heaved a deep sigh, and took a solemn fare¬ 
well of the company. They were all amazement. The 
baron was perfectly thunderstruck. 

1. The heroine of a ballad by the German poet Burger, of the 
eighteenth century. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


71 


“What! going to leave the castle at midnight? 
why, everything was prepared for his reception; a 
chamber was ready for him if he wished to retire.” 

The stranger shook his head mournfully, and myste¬ 
riously : “I must lay my head in a different chamber 
to-night! ’ ’ 

There was something in this reply, and the tone in 
which it was uttered, that made the baron’s heart mis¬ 
give him; but he rallied his forces, and repeated his 
hospitable entreaties. The stranger shook his head 
silently, but positively, at every offer; and, waving 
his farewell to the company, stalked slowly out of the 
hall. The maiden aunts were absolutely petrified—the 
bride hung her head, and a tear stole to her eye. 

The baron followed the stranger to the great court 
of the castle, where the black charger stood pawing 
the earth, and snorting with impatience. When thej r 
had reached the portal, whose deep archway was 
dimly lighted by a cresset, the stranger paused, and 
addressed the baron in a hollow tone of voice, which 
the vaulted roof rendered still more sepulchral. “Now 
that we are alone , 99 said he, “I will impart to you the 
reason of my going. I have a solemn, an indispensable 
engagement”— 

“Why,” said the baron, “cannot you send some 
one in your place?” 

“It admits of no substitute—I must attend it in 
person—I must away to Wurtzburg cathedral”— 

“Ay,” said the baron, plucking up spirit, “but not 
until to-morrow—to-morrow you shall take your bride 
there. ’ ’ 


72 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“No! no!” replied the stranger, with tenfold 
solemnity, “my engagement is with no bride—the 
worms! the worms expect me! I am a dead man—I 
have been slain by robbers—my body lies at Wurtz- 
burg—at midnight I am to be buried—the grave is 
waiting for me—I must keep my appointment! ’ ’ 

He sprang on his black charger, dashed over the 
drawbridge, and the clattering of his horse’s hoofs 
was lost in the whistling of the night blasf. 

The baron returned to the hall in the utmost con¬ 
sternation, and related what had passed. Two ladies 
fainted outright; others sickened at the idea of having 
banqueted with a spectre. It was the opinion of 
some, that this might be the wild huntsman , 1 famous 
in German legend. Some talked of mountain sprites, 
of wood-demons, and of other supernatural beings, 
with which the good people of Germany have been so 
grievously harassed since time immemorial. One of 
the poor relations ventured to suggest that it might 
be some sportive evasion of the young cavalier, and 
that the very gloominess of the caprice seemed to ac¬ 
cord with so melancholy a personage. This, however, 
drew on him the indignation of the whole company, 
and especially of the baron, who looked upon him as 
little better than an infidel; so that he was fain to 
abjure his heresy as speedily as possible, and come 
into the faith of the true believers. 

But, whatever may have been the doubts enter¬ 
tained, they were completely put to an end by the 
arrival, next day, of regular missives, confirming the 

1. Der Wilde Jdger, by Burger. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 73 

intelligence of the young count’s murder, and his 
interment in Wurtzburg cathedral. 

The dismay at the castle may well be imagined. 
The baron shut himself up in his chamber. The 
guests, who had come to rejoice with him, could not 
think of abandoning him in his distress. They wan¬ 
dered about the courts, or collected in groups in the 
hall, shaking their heads and shrugging their shoul¬ 
ders, at the troubles of so good a man; and sat longer 
than ever at table, and ate and drank more stoutly 
than ever, by way of keeping up their spirits. But the 
situation of the widowed bride was the most pitiable. 
To have lost a husband before she had even embraced 
him—and such a husband! if the very spectre could 
be so gracious and noble, what must have been the 
living man? She filled the house with lamentations. 

On the night of the second day of her widowhood, 
she had retired to her chamber, accompanied by one 
of her aunts, who insisted on sleeping with her. The 
aunt, who was one of the best tellers of ghost stories 
in all Germany, had just been recounting one of her 
longest, -and had fallen asleep in the very midst of it. 
The chamber was remote, and overlooked a small 
garden. The niece lay pensively gazing at the beams 
of the rising moon, as they trembled on the leaves of 
an aspen-tree before the lattice. The castle clock had 
just tolled midnight, when a soft strain of music stole 
up from the garden. She rose hastily from her bed 
and stepped lightly to the window. A tall figure 
stood among the shadows of the trees. As it raised 
its head, a beam of moonlight fell upon its counte- 


74 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


nance. Heavens and earth! she beheld the Spectre 
Bridegroom! A loud shriek at that moment burst 
upon her ear, and her aunt, who had been awakened by 
the music, and had followed her silently to the win¬ 
dow, fell into her arms. When she looked again, the 
spectre had disappeared. 

Of the two females, the aunt now required the most 
soothing, for she was perfectly beside herself with 
terror. As to the young lady, there was something, 
even in the spectre of her lover that seemed endear¬ 
ing. There was still the semblance of manly beauty; 
and though the shadow of a man is but little calcu¬ 
lated to satisfy the affections of a Jove-sick girl, yet, 
where the substance is not to be had, even that is 
consoling. The aunt declared she would never sleep 
in that chamber again; the niece, for once, was re¬ 
fractory, and declared as strongly that she would sleep 
in no other in the castle: the consequence was, that 
she had to sleep in it alone; but she drew a promise 
from her aunt not to relate the story of the spectre, 
lest she should be denied the only melancholy pleasure 
left her on earth—that of inhabiting the chamber 
over which the guardian shade of her lover kept its 
nightly vigils. 

How long the good old lady would have observed 
this promise is uncertain, for she dearly loved to talk 
of the marvelous, and there is a triumph in being the 
first to tell a frightful story; it is, however, still 
quoted in the neighborhood, as a memorable instance 
of female secrecy, that she kept it to herself for a 
whole week; when she was suddenly absolved from all 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


75 


further restraint, by intelligence brought to the break¬ 
fast table one morning that the young lady was not to 
be found. Her room was empty—the bed had not 
been slept in—the window was open—and the bird 
had flown! 

The astonishment and concern with which the intel¬ 
ligence was received can only be imagined by those 
who have witnessed the agitation which the mishaps 
of a great man cause among his friends. Even the 
poor relations paused for a moment from the inde¬ 
fatigable labors of the trencher; when the aunt, who 
had at first been struck speechless, wrung her hands, 
and shrieked out, “The goblin! the goblin! she’s 
carried away by the goblin!” 

In a few words she related the fearful scene of the 
garden, and concluded that the spectre must have car¬ 
ried off his bride. Two of the domestics corroborated 
the opinion, for they had heard the clattering of a 
horse’s hoofs down the mountain about midnight, and 
had no doubt that it was the spectre on his black 
charger, bearing her away to the tomb. All present 
-were struck with the direful probability; for events 
of the kind are extremely common in Germany, as 
many well authenticated histories bear witness. 

What a lamentable situation was that of the poor 
baron! What a heart-rending dilemma for a fond 
father, and a member of the great family of Katzen- 
ellenbogen! His only daughter had either been rapt 
away to the grave, or he was to have some wood- 
demon for a son-in-law, and, perchance, a troop of 
goblin grandchildren. As usual, he was completely 


76 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


bewildered, and all the castle in an uproar. The men 
were ordered to take horse, and scour every road and 
path and glen of the Odenwald. The baron himself 
had just drawn on his jack-boots, girded on his sword, 
and was about to mount his steed to sally forth on the 
doubtful quest, when he was brought to a pause by 
a new apparition. A lady was seen approaching the 
castle, mounted on a palfrey, attended by a cavalier 
on horseback. She galloped up to the gate, sprang 
from her horse, and falling at the baron’s feet 
embraced his knees. It was his lost daughter, and 
her companion—the Spectre Bridegroom! The baron 
was astounded. He looked at his daughter, then at 
the spectre, and almost doubted the evidence of his 
senses. The latter, too, was wonderfully improved in 
his appearance, since his visit to the world of spirits. 
His dress was splendid, and set off a noble figure of 
manly symmetry. He was no longer pale and melan¬ 
choly. His fine countenance was flushed with the 
glow of youth, and joy rioted in his large dark eyes. 

The mystery was soon cleared up. The cavalier (for 
in truth, as you must have known all the while, he 
was no goblin) announced himself as Sir Herman 
Yon Starkenfaust. He related his adventure with the 
young count. He told how he had hastened to the 
castle to deliver the unwelcome tidings, but that the 
eloquence of the baron had interrupted him in every 
attempt to tell his tale. How the sight of the bride 
had completely captivated him, and that, to pass a few 
hours near her, he had tacitly suffered the mistake to 
continue. How he had been sorely perplexed in what 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


77 


way to make a decent retreat, until the baron’s goblin 
stories had suggested his eccentric exit. How, fearing 
the feudal hostility of the family, he had repeated his 
visits by stealth—had haunted the garden beneath 
the young lady’s window—had wooed—had won— 
had borne away in triumph—and, in a word, had 
wedded the fair one. 

Under any other circumstances the baron would 
have been inflexible, for he was tenacious of paternal 
authority, and devoutly obstinate in all family feuds; 
but he loved his daughter; he had lamented her as 
lost; he rejoiced to find her still alive; and, though 
her husband was of a hostile house, yet, thank Heaven, 
he was not a goblin. There was something, it must 
be acknowledged, that did not exactly accord with his 
notions of strict veracity, in the joke the knight had 
passed upon him of his being a dead man; but several 
old friends present, who had served in the wars, 
assured him that every stratagem w T as excusable in 
love, and that the cavalier was entitled to especial 
privilege, having lately served as a trooper. 

Matters, therefore, were happily arranged. The 
baron pardoned the young couple on the spot. The 
revels at the castle were resumed. The poor relations 
overwhelmed this new member of the family with lov¬ 
ing kindness; he was so gallant, so generous,—and 
so rich. The aunts, it is true, were somewhat scan¬ 
dalized that their system of strict seclusion and passive 
obedience should be so badly exemplified, but attrib¬ 
uted it all to their negligence in not having the win¬ 
dows grated. One of them was particularly mortified 


78 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


at having her marvellous story marred, and that the 
only spectre she had ever seen should turn out a coun¬ 
terfeit ; hut the niece seemed perfectly happy at hav¬ 
ing found him substantial flesh and blood,—and so 
the story ends. 

Washington Irving, 1783 - 1859 . 

The birth of Washington Irving, the first American writer 
to gain literary distinction abroad, was coincident with the 
birth of the American Republic. On account of a delicate 
constitution, and of the few educational opportunities of his 
time, his early schooling was desultory and limited. With his 
mind stimulated by such books as Robinson Crusoe and the 
Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, he was sent to Europe for 
his health. There for two years his observant and receptive 
mind absorbed the spirit of European social life, and found 
many sources of inspiration. Upon his return he studied law, 
and was admitted to the bar. After a brief attempt at law, 
he entered, in conjunction with his brother and a friend, upon 
the editorship of the Salmagundi, an imitation of Addison’s 
Spectator. Later he made several trips to Europe, at one 
time remaining seventeen years. During this time he received 
an honorary degree from Oxford and became widely known 
both for his splendid diplomatic service as member of the 
American legation to Madrid, and for his writings. His final 
trip was made in the capacity of American minister to Spain. 
He spent the last years of his life at Sunnyside, on the Hudson, 
where, until his death, he devoted himself assiduously to 
writing. 

Irving*s writings were numerous. They include essays, stories, 
biographies. In his scenes and characters, he is the first writer 
to give local color. The charm of his writings lies in their 
simplicity, effective delineation, whimsical humor, romantic 
and refined sentiment. Their placid style and legendary 
atmosphere (especially true of the sketches and stories) amuse 
and interest. 


THE SPECTRE BRIDEGROOM 


79 


Besides his biographies and lives, his stories of the North¬ 
west and his famous History of New Yorlc, Irving’s principal 
writings are The Sketch Book, Braceb ridge Hall, Tales of a 
Traveler, and the Alhambra, all miscellaneous collections of 
sketches, portraits, and short stories. 

Suggested Readings: The Wife, Rip Van Winkle, Legend 
of the Arabian Astrologer (The Alhambra), Legend of the 
Three Beautiful Princesses (The Alhambra), The Devil and 
Tom Walker, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


It was an hour after noon. Ligarius was returning 
from the Campus Martius. He strolled through one 
of the streets which led to the Forum, settling his 
gown, and calculating the odds on the gladiators 
who were to fence at the approaching Saturnalia. 
While thus occupied, he overtook Flaminius, who, 
with a heavy step and melancholy face, was saunter¬ 
ing in the same direction. The light-hearted young 
man plucked him by the sleeve. 

‘ ‘ Good-day, Flaminius. Are you to be of Catiline’s 
party this evening?” 

“Not I.” 

“Why so? Your little Tarentine girl will break 
her heart.” 

“No matter. Catiline has the best cooks and the 
finest wine in Rome. There are charming women at 
his parties. But the twelve-line board and the dice- 
box pay for all. The Gods confound me if I did not 
lose two millions of sesterces last night. My villa at 
Tibur, and all the statues that my father the praetor 
brought from Ephesus, must go to the auctioneer. 
That is a high price, you will acknowledge, even for 
Phoenicopters, Chian, and Callinice.” 

“High indeed, by Pollux.” 

“And that is not the worst. I saw several of the 
leading senators this morning. Strange things are 
whispered in the higher political circles.” 

“The Gods confound the political circles. I have 

80 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


81 


hated the name of politician ever since Sylla’s pro¬ 
scription, when I was within a moment of having my 
throat cut by a politician, who took me for another 
politician. While there is a cask of Falernian in 
Campania, or a girl in the Suburra, I shall be too 
well employed to think on the subject.” 

“You will do well,” said Flaminius gravely, “to 
bestow some little consideration upon it at present. 
Otherwise, I fear, you will soon renew your acquaint¬ 
ance with politicians, in a manner quite as unpleasant 
as that to which you allude.” 

“Averting Gods! What do you mean?” 

“I will tell you. There are rumors of conspiracy. 
The order of things established by Lucius Sylla has 
excited the disgust of the people, and of a large party 
of the nobles. Some violent convulsion is expected.” 

“What is that to me? I suppose that they will 
hardly proscribe the vintners and gladiators, or pass 
a law compelling every citizen to take a wife.” 

“You do not understand. Catiline is supposed to 
be the author of the revolutionary schemes. You 
must have heard bold opinions at his table repeat¬ 
edly.” 

“I never listen to any opinions upon such subjects, 
bold or timid.” 

“Look to it. Your name has been mentioned.” 

“Mine? Good Gods! I call heaven to witness 
that I never so much as mentioned Senate, Consul, 
or Comitia, in Catiline’s house.” 

“Nobody suspects you of any participation in the 
inmost counsels of the party. But our great men 


82 


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surmise that you are among those whom he has bribed 
so high with beauty, or entangled so deeply in dis¬ 
tress, that they are no longer their own masters. 
I shall never set foot within his threshold again. 
I have been solemnly warned by men who understand 
public affairs; and I advise you to be cautious,” 

The friends had now turned into the Forum, which 
was thronged with the gay and elegant youth of 
Rome. “I can tell you more,” continued Flaminius; 
“somebody was remarking to the Consul yesterday 
how loosely a certain acquaintance of ours tied his 
girdle. ‘Let him look to himself,’ said Cicero, ‘or 
the state may find a tighter girdle for his neck.’ ” 

“Good Gods! who is it? You cannot surely 
mean—” 

“There he is.” 

Flaminius pointed to a man who was pacing up 
and down the Forum at a distance from them. He 
was in the prime of manhood. His personal advan¬ 
tages were extremely striking, and were displayed 
with an extravagant but not ungraceful foppery. His 
gown waved in loose folds; his long dark curls were 
dressed with exquisite art, and shone and steamed 
with odors; his step and gesture exhibited an elegant 
and commanding figure in every posture of polite 
languor. But his countenance formed a singular 
contrast to the general appearance of his person. 
The high and imperial brow, the keen aquiline fea¬ 
tures, the compressed mouth, the penetrating eye, 
indicated the highest degree of ability and decision. 
He seemed absorbed in intense meditation. With eyes 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


83 


fixed on the ground, and lips working in thought, he 
sauntered round the area, apparently unconscious 
how many of the young gallants of Rome were envy¬ 
ing the taste of his dress, and the ease of his fashion¬ 
able stagger. 

“Good Heaven!” said Ligarius, “Caius Caesar is 
as unlikely to be in a plot as I am.” 

“Not at all.” 

1 ‘ He does nothing but game, feast, -intrigue, read 
Greek, and write verses.” 

“You know nothing of Caesar. Though he rarely 
addresses the Senate, he is considered as the finest 
speaker there, after the Consul. His influence with 
the multitude is immense. He will serve his rivals 
in public life as he served me last night at Catiline’s. 
We were playing at the twelve lines 1 —immense 
stakes. He laughed all the time, chatted with Valeria 
over his shoulder, kissed her hand between every two 
moves, and scarcely looked at the board. I thought 
that I had him. All at once I found my counters 
driven into the corner. Not a piece to move, by 
Hercules. It cost me two millions of sesterces. All 
the Gods and Goddesses confound him for it!” 

“As to Valeria,” said Ligarius, “I forgot to ask 
whether you have heard the news.” 

“Not a word. What?” 

‘ ‘ I was told at the baths today that Caesar escorted 
the lady home. Unfortunately old Quintus Lutatius 

1. Duodecim scripta, a game of mixed chance and skill, which 
seems to have been very fashionable in the higher circles jof Rome. 
The famous lawyer Mucius was renowned for his skill in it.— 
(Cic., Orat., 1, 50.) 


84 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


had come back from his villa in Campania, in a whim 
of jealousy. He was not expected for three days. 
There was a fine tumult. The old fool called for his 
sword and his slaves, cursed his wife, and swore that 
he would cut Caesar’s throat.” 

“And Caesar?” 

“He laughed, quoted Anacreon, trussed his gown 
round his left arm, closed with Quintus, flung him 
down, twisted his sword out of his hand, burst through 
the attendants, ran a freed-man through the shoulder, 
and was in the street in an instant.” 

“Well done! Here he comes. Good-day, Caius.” 

Caesar lifted his head at the salutation. His air of 
deep abstraction vanished; and he extended a hand 
to each of the friends. 

“How are you after last night’s exploit?” 

“As well as possible,” said Caesar, laughing. 

“In truth, we should rather ask how Quintus 
Lutatius is.” 

“He, I understand, is as well as can be expected of 
a man with a faithless spouse and broken head. His 
freedman is most seriously hurt. Poor fellow! he 
shall have half of whatever I win to-night. Flaminius, 
you shall have your revenge at Catiline’s. ’ ’ 

“You are very kind. I do not intend to be at 
Catiline’s till I wish to part with my town-house. My 
villa is gone already.” 

“Not at Catiline’s, base spirit! You are not of his 
mind, my gallant Ligarius. Dice, Chian, and the 
loveliest Greek singing-girl that was ever seen. Think 
of that, Ligarius. By Venus, she almost made me 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 85 

adore her, by telling me that I talked Greek with the 
most Attic accent that she had heard in Italy.” 

“I doubt she will not say the same of me,” replied 
Ligarius. “I am just as able to decipher an obelisk 
as to read a line of Homer. ’ 9 

“You barbarous Scythian, who had the care of your 
education ? ’ ’ 

“An old fool—a Greek pedant—a Stoic. He told 
me that pain was no evil, and flogged me as if he 
thought so. At last one day, in the middle of a lec¬ 
ture, I set fire to his enormous filthy beard, singed his 
face, and sent him roaring out of the house. There 
ended my studies. From that time to this I have had 
as little to do with Greece as the wine that your poor 
old friend Lutatius calls his delicious Samian.” 

“Well done, Ligarius. I hate a Stoic. I wish 
Marcus Cato had a beard that you might singe it for 
him. The fool talked his two hours in the Senate yes¬ 
terday, without changing a muscle of his face. He 
looked as savage and as motionless as the mask in 
which Roscius acted Alecto. I detest everything con¬ 
nected with him.” 

“Except his sister, Servilia.” 

“True. She is a lovely woman.” 

“They say that you have told her so, Caius.” 

“So I have.” 

“And that she was not angry.” 

“What woman is?” 

“Ay,—but they say—” 

‘ ‘ No matter what they say. Common fame lies like 
a Greek rhetorician. You might know so much, Liga- 


86 


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rius, without reading the philosophers. But come, I 
will introduce you to little dark-eyed Zoe.” 

“I tell you I can speak no Greek/’ 

“More shame for you. It is high time that you 
should begin. You will never have such a charming 
instructress. Of what was your father thinking when 
he sent for an old Stoic with a long beard to teach 
you? There is no language-mistress like a handsome 
woman. When I was at Athens, I learnt more Greek 
from a pretty flower-girl in the Peiraeus than from 
all the Portico and the Academy. She was no Stoic, 
Heaven knows. But come along to Zoe. I will be 
your interpreter. Woo her in honest Latin, and I will 
turn it into elegant Greek between the throws of dice. 
I can make love and mind my game at once, as Fla- 
minius can tell you.” 

“Well, then, to be plain, Caesar, Flaminius has been 
talking to me about plots, and suspicions, and poli¬ 
ticians. I have never plagued myself with such things 
since Sylla’s and Marius’s days; and then I never 
could see much difference between the parties. All that 
I am sure of is, that those who meddle with such af¬ 
fairs are generally stabbed or strangled. And, though 
I like Greek wine and handsome women, I do not wish 
to risk my neck for them. Now, tell me as a friend, 
Caius;—is there no danger?” 

“Danger!” repeated Caesar, with a short, fierce, 
disdainful laugh. “What danger do you appre¬ 
hend ? ” • 

“That you should best know,” said Flaminius; 
“you are far more intimate with Catiline than I. 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


87 


But I advise you to be cautious. The leading men 
entertain strong suspicions. ’ ’ 

Caesar drew up his figure from its ordinary state of 
graceful relaxation into an attitude of commanding dig¬ 
nity, and replied in a voice of which the deep and im¬ 
passioned melody formed a strange contrast to the hu¬ 
morous and affected tone of his ordinary conversation. 
“Let them suspect. They suspect because they know 
what they have deserved. What have they done for 
Rome?—What for mankind?—Ask the citizens. Ask 
the provinces. Have they had any other object than 
to perpetuate their own exclusive power, and to keep 
us under the yoke of an oligarchical tyranny, which 
unites in itself the worst evils of every other system, 
and combines more than Athenian turbulence with 
more than Persian despotism ? ’ ’ 

“Good Gods! Caesar. It is not safe for you to 
speak, or for us to listen to, such things, at such a 
crisis. ’ ’ 

“Judge for yourselves what you will hear. I will 
judge for myself what I will speak. I was not twenty 
years old, when I defied Lucius Sylla, surrounded by 
the spears of legionaries and the daggers of assassins. 
Do you suppose that I stand in awe of his paltry suc¬ 
cessors, who have inherited a power which they never 
could have acquired; who would imitate his proscrip¬ 
tions, though they have never equalled his con¬ 
quests ? ’ ’ 

“Pompey is almost as little to be trifled with as 
Sylla. I heard a consular senator say that, in conse¬ 
quence of the present alarming state of affairs, he 


88 


SHQRT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


would probably be recalled from the command as¬ 
signed to him by the Manilian law.” 

“Let him come—the pupil of Sylla’s butcheries— 
the gleaner of Lucullus’s trophies—the thief-taker of 
the Senate.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Caius!—if you knew what the 
Consul said—” 

“Something about himself, no doubt. Pity that 
such talents should be coupled with such cowardice 
and coxcombry. He is the finest speaker living— 
infinitely superior to what Hortensius was, in his best 
days;—a charming companion, except when he tells 
over for the twentieth time all the jokes that he made 
at Yerres’s trial. But he is the despicable tool of a 
despicable party.” 

“Your language, Caius, convinces me that the re¬ 
ports which have been circulated are not without 
foundation. I will venture to prophesy that within a 
few months the republic will pass through a whole 
Odyssey of strange adventures.” 

1 ‘ I believe so; an Odyssey of which Pompey will be 
the Polyphemus, and Cicero the Siren. I would have 
the state imitate Ulysses: show no mercy to the for¬ 
mer; but contrive, if it can be done, to listen to the 
enchanting voice of the other, without being seduced 
by it to destruction.” 

“But whom can your party produce as rivals to 
these two famous leaders?” 

“Time will show. I would hope that there may 
arise a man whose genius to conquer, to conciliate, 
and to govern, may unite in one cause an oppressed 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


89 


and divided people;—may do all that Sylla should 
have done, and exhibit the magnificent spectacle of a 
great nation directed by a great mind. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And where is such a man to be found ? ’ ’ 

“Perhaps where you would least expect to find him. 
Perhaps he may be one whose powers have hitherto 
been concealed in domestic or literary retirement. 
Perhaps he may be one, who, while waiting for some 
adequate excitement, for some worthy opportunity, 
squanders on trifles a genius before which may yet 
be humbled the sword of Pompey and the gown of 
Cicero. Perhaps he may now be disputing with a 
sophist; perhaps prattling with a mistress; perhaps—” 
and, as he spoke, he turned away, and resumed his 
lounge, “strolling in the Forum.’’ 

# # * * * 

It was almost midnight. The party had separated. 
Catiline and Cethegus were still conferring in the 
supper-room, which was, as usual, the highest apart¬ 
ment of the house. It formed a cupola, from which 
windows opened on the flat roof that surrounded it. 
To this terrace Zoe had retired. With eyes dimmed 
with fond and melancholy tears, she leaned over the 
balustrade, to catch the last glimpse of the departing 
form of Caesar, as it grew more and more indistinct 
in the moonlight. Had he any thought of her ? Any 
love for her ? He, the favorite of the high-born beau¬ 
ties of Rome, the most eloquent of its nobles? It 
could not be. His voice had, indeed, been touchingly 
soft whenever he addressed her. There had been a 
fascinating tenderness even in the vivacity of his look 


90 


SHORT STOEIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and conversation. But sucli were always the manners 
of Caesar towards women. He had wreathed a sprig 
of myrtle in her hair as she was singing. She took it 
from her dark ringlets, and kissed it, and wept over it, 
and thought of the' sweet legends of her own dear 
Greece—of youths and girls, who, pining away in 
hopeless love, had been transformed into flowers by 
the compassion of the gods; and she wished to become 
a flower, which Caesar might sometimes touch, though 
he should touch it only to weave a crown for some 
prouder and happier mistress. 

She was roused from her musings by the loud step 
and voice of Cethegus, who was pacing furiously up 
and down the supper-room. 

“May all the gods confound me, if Caesar be not 
the deepest traitor, or the most miserable idiot, that 
ever intermeddled with a plot! ’ 9 

Zoe shuddered. She drew nearer to the window. 
She stood concealed from observation by the curtain 
of fine network which hung over the aperture, to 
exclude the annoying insects of the climate. 

“And you, too!” continued Cethegus, turning 
fiercely on his accomplice; “you to take his part 
against me !—you, who proposed the scheme yourself! ’’ 
“My dear Caius Cethegus, you will not understand 
me. I proposed the scheme; and I will join in exe¬ 
cuting it. But policy is as necessary to our plans as 
boldness. I did not wish to startle Caesar—to lose 
his co-operation—perhaps to send him off with an 
information against us to Cicero and Catulus. He was 
so indignant at your suggestion, that all my dis- 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


91 


simulation was scarcely sufficient to prevent a total 
rupture. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ Indignant! The gods confound him!—He prated 
about humanity, and generosity, and moderation. By 
Hercules, I have not heard such a lecture since I was 
with Xenochares at Rhodes.” 

“Caesar is made up of inconsistencies. He has 
boundless ambition, unquestioned courage, admirable 
sagacity. Yet I have frequently observed in him a 
womanish weakness at the sight of pain. I remember 
that once one of his slaves w r as taken ill while carrying 
his litter. He alighted, put the fellow in his place, 
and walked home in a fall of snow. I wonder that 
you could be so ill-advised as to talk to him of mas¬ 
sacre, and pillage, and conflagration. You might have 
foreseen that such propositions would disgust a man 
of his temper.” 

“I do not know. I have not your self-command, 
Lucius. I hate such conspirators. What is the use 
of them? We must have blood—blood—hacking and 
tearing work—bloody work! ’ ’ 

“Do not grind your teeth, my dear Caius; and lay 
down the carving-knife. By Hercules, you have cut 
up all the stuffing of the couch. ’ ’ 

“No matter; we shall have couches enough soon— 
and down to stuff them with, and purple to cover 
them, and pretty women to loll on them, unless this 
fool, and such as he, spoil our plans. I had something 
else to say. The essenced fop wishes to seduce Zoe 
from me.” 

“Impossible! You misconstrue the ordinary gal- 




92 


SHORT STOEIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


lantries which he is in the habit of paying to every 
handsome face.” 

“Curse on his ordinary gallantries, and his verses, 
and his compliments, and his sprigs of myrtle! If 
Caesar should dare—by Hercules, I will tear him to 
pieces in the middle of the Forum.” 

“Trust his destruction to me. We must use his 
talents and influence—thrust him upon every danger 
—make him our instrument while we are contending 
—our peace-offering to the Senate if we fail—our 
first victim if we succeed. ’ ’ 

“Hark! what noise was that?” 

‘ * Somebody in the terrace!—lend me your dagger. ’’ 
♦ Catiline rushed to the window. Zoe was standing 
in the shade. He stepped out. She darted into the 
room—passed like a flash of lightning by the startled 
Cethegus—flew down the stairs—through the court— 
through the vestibule—through the street. Steps, 
voices, lights, came fast and confusedly behind her;— 
but with the speed of love and terror she gained upon 
her pursuers. She fled through the wilderness of un¬ 
known and dusky streets, till she found herself, breath¬ 
less and exhausted, in the midst of a crowd of gallants, 
who, with chaplets on their heads, and torches in their 
hands, were reeling from the portico of a stately 
mansion. 

The foremost of the throng was a youth whose 
slender figure and beautiful countenance seemed 
hardly consistent with his sex. But the feminine deli¬ 
cacy of his features rendered more frightful the min¬ 
gled sensuality and ferocity of their expression. The 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


93 


libertine audacity of his stare, and the grotesque 
foppery of his apparel, seemed to indicate at least a 
partial insanity. Flinging one arm around Zoe, and 
tearing away her veil with the other, he disclosed to 
the gaze of his thronging companions the regular fea¬ 
tures and large dark eyes which characterize Athenian 
beauty. 

“Clodius has all the luck to-night/’ cried Liga- 
rius. 

“Not so, by Hercules,” said Marcus Coelius; “the 
girl is fairly our common prize; we will fling dice for 
her. The Venus 1 throw, as it ought to do, shall 
decide. ’ 9 

“Let me go—let me go, for Heaven’s sake,” cried 
Zoe, struggling with Clodius. 

“What a charming Greek accent she has. Come 
into the house, my little Athenian nightingale.” 

“ Oh ! what will become of me ? If you have mothers 
—if you have sisters—” 

“Clodius has a sister,” muttered Ligarius, “or he 
is much belied.” 

“By Heaven, she is weeping,” said Clodius. 

“If she were not evidently a Greek,” said Coelius, 
“I should take her for a vestal virgin.” 

“And if she were a vestal virgin,” cried Clodius 
fiercely, “it should not deter me. This way;—no 
struggling—no screaming.” 

‘ ‘ Struggling! screaming! ’ ’ exclaimed a gay and 
commanding voice; “you are making very ungentle 
love, Clodius.” 


1. Venus was the Roman term for the highest throw on the dice. 


94 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


The whole party started. Caesar had mingled with 
them unperceived. 

The sound of his voice thrilled through the very 
heart of Zoe. With a convulsive effort she burst from 
the grasp of her insolent admirer, flung herself at the 
feet of Caesar, and clasped his knees. The moon 
shone full on her agitated and imploring face: her 
lips moved; but she uttered no sound. He gazed at 
her for an instant—raised her—clasped her to his 
bosom. ‘‘Fear nothing, my sweet Zoe.” Then, with 
folded arms, and a smile of placid defiance, he placed 
himself between her and Clodius. 

Clodius staggered forward, flushed with wine and 
rage, and uttering alternately a curse and a hiccup. 

“By Pollux, this passes a jest. Caesar, how dare 
you insult me thus?” 

“A jest! I am as serious as a Jew on the Sabbath. 
Insult you! For such a pair of eyes I would insult 
the whole consular bench, or I should be as insensible 
as King Psammiss’s mummy.” 

“Good Gods, Caesar!” said Marcus Coelius, inter¬ 
posing; “you cannot think it worth wdiile to get into 
a brawl for a little Greek girl! ’ * 

‘ ‘ Why not ? The Greek girls have used me as well as 
those of Rome. Besides, the whole reputation of my 
gallantry is at stake. Give up such a lovely woman 
to that drunken boy! My hereafter would be gone 
forever. No more perfumed tablets, full of vows and 
raptures. No more toying with fingers at the Circus. 
No more evening walks along the Tiber. No more 
hiding in chests, or jumping from windows. I, the 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


95 


favored suitor of half the white stoles in Rome, could 
never again aspire above a freedwoman. You a man 
of gallantry, and think of such a thing! For shame, 
my dear Coelius! Do not let Clodia hear of it.’ ’ 

While Caesar spoke he had been engaged in keeping 
Clodius at arm’s length. The rage of the frantic 
libertine increased as the struggle continued. i 1 Stand 
back, as you value your life,” he cried; “I will pass.” 

“Not this way, sweet Clodius. I have too much 
regard for you to suffer you to make love at such dis¬ 
advantage. You smell too much of Falernian at pres¬ 
ent. Would you stifle your mistress? By Hercules, 
you are fit to kiss nobody now, except old Piso, 
when he is tumbling home in the morning from the 
vintners. ’ ’ 

Clodius plunged his hand into his bosom, and drew 
a little dagger, the faithful companion of many des¬ 
perate adventures. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Gods! he will be murdered! ’ ’ cried Zoe. 

The whole throng of revellers was in agitation. The 
street fluctuated with torches and lifted hands. It 
was but for a moment. Caesar watched with a steady 
eye the descending hand of Clodius, arrested the blow, 
seized his antagonist by the throat, and flung him 
against one of the pillars of the portico with such 
violence that he rolled, stunned and senseless, on the 
ground. 

“He is killed,” cried several voices. 

“Fair self-defence, by Hercules!” said Marcus 
Coelius.. “Bear witness, you all saw him draw his 
dagger.” 


96 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


* * He is not dead—he breathes, ’ ’ said Ligarius. 
‘ ‘ Carry him into the house; he is dreadfully bruised. ’ ’ 
The rest of the party retired with Clodius. Coelius 
turned to Caesar. 

‘‘By all the Gods, Caius! you have won your lady 
fairly. A splendid victory! You deserve triumph.*’ 
“What a madman Clodius has become!*’ 
“Intolerable. But come and sup with me on the 
Nones. You have no objection to meet the Con¬ 
sul ? * * 

“Cicero? None at all. We need not talk politics. 
Our old dispute about Plato and Epicurus will furnish 
us with plenty of conversation. So reckon upon me, 
my dear Marcus, and farewell.** 

Caesar and Zoe turned away. As soon as they were 
beyond hearing, she began in great agitation: 

“Caesar, you are in danger. I know all. I over¬ 
heard Catiline and Oethegus. You are engaged in a 
project which must lead to certain destruction.” 

‘ ‘ My beautiful Zoe, I live only for glory and pleas¬ 
ure. For these I have never hesitated to hazard an 
existence which they alone render valuable to me. 
In the present case, I can assure you that our scheme 
presents the fairest hopes of success.*’ 

“So much the worse. You do not know—you do 
not understand me. I speak not of open peril, but of 
secret treachery. Catiline hates you;—Cethegus hates 
you;—your destruction is resolved. If you survive 
the contest, you perish in the first hour of victory. 
They detest you for your moderation;—they are eager 
for blood and plunder. I have risked my life to bring 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


97 


you this warning; but that is of little moment. Fare¬ 
well !—Be happy. ’ 9 

Caesar stopped her. “Do you fly from my thanks, 
dear Zoe?” 

* ‘ I wish not for your thanks, but for your safety;— 
I desire not to defraud Valeria or Servilia of one 
caress, extorted from gratitude or pity. Be my feel¬ 
ings what they may, I have learnt in a fearful school 
to endure and to suppress them. I have been taught 
to abase a proud spirit to the claps and hisses of the 
vulgar;—to smile on suitors who united the insults of 
a despicable pride to the endearments of a loathsome 
fondness;—to affect sprightliness with an aching head, 
and eyes from which tears were ready to gush;—to 
feign love with curses on my lips, and madness in 
my brain. Who feels for me any esteem—any ten¬ 
derness? Who will shed a tear over the nameless 
grave which will soon shelter from cruelty and scorn 
the broken heart of the poor Athenian girl ? But you, 
who alone have addressed her in her degradation with 
a voice of kindness and respect, farewell. Sometimes 
think of me—not with sorrow;—no; I could bear your 
ingratitude, but not your distress. Yet, if it will not 
pain you too much, in distant days, when your lofty 
hopes and destinies are accomplished—on the evening 
of some mighty victory—think on one who loved you 
with that exceeding love which only the miserable can ¥ 
feel. Think that, wherever her exhausted frame may 
have sunk beneath the sensibilities of a tortured spirit 
—in whatever hovel or whatever vault she may have 
closed her eyes—whatever strange scenes of horror 


98 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and pollution may have surrounded her dying bed, 
your shape was the last that swam before her sight— 
your voice the last sound that was ringing in her 
ears. Yet turn your face to me, Caesar. Let me 
carry away one last look of those features, and then—” 
He turned round. He looked at her. He hid his face 
on her bosom, and burst into tears. With sobs long 
and loud, and convulsive as those of a terrified child, 
he poured forth on her bosom the tribute of impetuous 
and uncontrollable emotion. He raised his head; but 
he in vain struggled to restore composure to the brow 
which had confronted the frown of Sylla, and the lips 
which had rivalled the eloquence of Cicero. He sev¬ 
eral times attempted to speak, but in vain; and his 
voice still faltered with tenderness, when, after a 
pause of several minutes, he thus addressed her: 

‘ ‘ My own dear Zoe, your love has been bestowed on 
one who, if he cannot merit, can at least appreciate 
and adore you. Beings of similar loveliness, and sim¬ 
ilar devotedness of affection, mingled in all my boyish 
dreams of greatness, with visions of curule chairs and 
ivory cars, marshalled legions and laurelled fasces. 
Such I have endeavored to find in the world; and, in 
their stead, I have met with selfishness, with vanity, 
with frivolity, with falsehood. The life which you 
have preserved is a boon less valuable than the 
^affection—” 

“Oh! Caesar,” interrupted the blushing Zoe, 
“think only on your own security at present. If you 
feel as you speak—but you are only mocking me—or 
perhaps your compassion—” 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


99 


“By Heaven!—by every oath that is binding—” 
“Alas! alas! Caesar, were not all the same oaths 
sworn yesterday to Valeria? But I will trust you, at 
least so far as to partake your present dangers. Flight 
may be necessary;—form your plans. Be they what 
they may, there is one who, in exile, in poverty, in 
peril, asks only to wander, to beg, to die with you.” 

“My Zoe, I do not anticipate any such necessity. 
To renounce the conspiracy without renouncing the 
principles on which it was originally undertaken—to 
elude the vengeance of the Senate without losing the 
confidence of the people—is, indeed, an arduous, but 
not an impossible, task. I owe it to myself and to my 
country to make the attempt. There is still ample 
time for consideration. At present I am too happy in 
love to think of ambition or danger. ’ ’ 

They had reached the door of a stately palace. 
Caesar struck it. It was instantly opened by a slave. 
Zoe found herself in a magnificent hall, surrounded 
by pillars of green marble, between which were ranged 
the statues of the long line of Julian nobles. 

“Call Endymion,” said Caesar. 

The confidential freedman made his appearance, 
not without a slight smile, which his patron’s good¬ 
nature emboldened him to hazard, at perceiving the 
beautiful Athenian. 

4 ‘ Arm my slaves, Endymion; there are reasons for 
precaution. Let them relieve each other on guard 
during the night. Zoe, my love, my preserver, why 
are your cheeks so pale ? Let me kiss some bloom into 
them. How you tremble! Endymion, a flask of 


100 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Samian and some fruit. Bring them to. my apart¬ 
ments. This way, my sweet Zoe.” 

# * # # # 

Thomas B. Macaulay, 1800-1859. 

This popular historian and essayist, one of the most distin¬ 
guished figures of the early nineteenth century, was born at 
Leicestershire, England. Together with the strong intelligence 
of his Quaker mother, he inherited the stanch character of his 
Scotch-Presbyterian father, who was an anti-slavery reformer, 
and, for years, editor of the Christian Observer, an abolitionist 
organ. He was educated at private schools until he entered 
Cambridge, from which he was graduated with honors. Later, 
he was admitted to the bar; but, finding law little to his liking, 
and literature and politics more interesting than courts, he 
soon yielded to his inclinations and forever abandoned law. 
Through a friend, he entered Parliament, soon becoming a 
leading member of the rising Whig party. His career from 
then on was one of continuous success. At three different 
times he was elected to Parliament, beside being made Secre¬ 
tary to the Board of Control of Indian Affairs and Member of 
the Supreme Council of Calcutta. In the latter capacity he 
spent four years in India, where his chief work consisted in 
organizing an educational system, and in drawing up a code 
of criminal procedure, which has been highly praised by sub¬ 
sequent lawyers and judges. Later in his career, he was made 
Rector of the University of Glasgow, Fellow of the Royal 
Society, and Foreign Member of the French Academy. In 
1857 he was raised to the Peerage. Two years later he died at 
Kensington. 

Macaulay displayed marked precocity. Reading with vo¬ 
racity, assimilating with eagerness, retaining with marvellous 
accurateness which he had read, he early acquired an astound¬ 
ing range of knowledge, and a command of literature that was 
imperial. 

His writings consist of history, poetry, essays. Of his 


FRAGMENTS OF A ROMAN TALE 


101 


thirty-six essays, critical, biographical, historical, the best 
known are those on Johnson, Addison, Goldsmith, Bacon, 
Bunyan, Clive, and Hastings. The Lays of Ancient Home are 
strong and dignified martial poems. His History of England 
(incomplete) had as much popularity as one of Dickens’s 
novels. By showing his story-telling art, his ability to vitalize 
the past, and to “chain the reader’s interest”, it places him 
first among English historians. 

Macaulay’s style is original, lucid, vigorous, finished. He 
draws striking portraits, paints attractive scenes, illustrates 
and illuminates with his brilliancy and learning. His well- 
organized, short, clear, balanced sentences, his concreteness and 
force, make his style admirable; and it has formed, more than 
any other, our present style of prose writing. 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


A MYSTERY OF THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 

At nightfall, once, in the olden time, on the rugged 
side of one of the Crystal Hills, a party of adventurers 
were refreshing themselves, after a toilsome and fruit¬ 
less quest for the Great Carbuncle. They had come 
thither, not as friends, nor partners in the enterprise, 
but each, save one youthful pair, impelled by his own 
selfish and solitary longing for this wondrous gem. 
Their feeling of brotherhood, however, was strong 
enough to induce them to contribute a mutual aid in 
building a rude hut of branches, and kindling a great 
fire of shattered pines, that had drifted down the head¬ 
long current of the Amonoosuck, on the lower bank of 
which they were to pass the night. There was but one 
of their number, perhaps, who had become so estranged 
from natural sympathies, by the absorbing spell of the 
pursuit, as to acknowledge no satisfaction at the sight 
of human faces, in the remote and solitary region 
whither they had ascended. A vast extent of wilder¬ 
ness lay between them and the nearest settlement, 
while scant a mile above their heads, was that black 
verge, where the hills throw off their shaggy mantle 
of forest trees, and either robe themselves in clouds 
or tower naked into the sky. The loar of the Amo¬ 
noosuck would have been too awful for endurance, if 
only a solitary man had listened, while the mountain 
stream talked with the wind. 

102 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


103 


The adventurers, therefore, exchanged hospitable 
greetings, and welcomed one another to the hut, where 
each man was the host, and all were the guests of the 
whole company. They spread their individual sup¬ 
plies of food on the flat surface of a rock, and partook 
of a general repast; at the close of which, a sentiment 
of good fellowship was perceptible among the party, 
though repressed by the idea that the renewed search 
for the Great Carbuncle must make them strangers 
again, in the morning. Seven men and one young 
woman, they warmed themselves together at the fire, 
which extended its bright wall along the whole front- 
of their wigwam. As they observed the various and 
contrasted figures that made up the assemblage, each 
man looking like a caricature of himself, in the un¬ 
steady light that flickered over him, they came mutu¬ 
ally to the conclusion, that an odder society had never 
met, in city or wilderness, on mountain or plain. 

The eldest of the group, a tall, lean, weather-beaten 
man, some sixty years of age, was clad in the skins of 
wild animals, whose fashion of dress he did well to 
imitate, since the deer, the wolf, and the bear had 
long been his most intimate companions. He was one 
of those ill-fated mortals, such as the Indians told of, 
whom, in their early youth, the Great Carbuncle smote 
with a peculiar madness, and became the passionate 
dream of their existence. All who visited that region 
knew him as the Seeker, and by no other name. As 
none could remember when he first took up the search, 
there went a fable in the valley of the Saco that, for 
his inordinate lust after the Great Carbuncle, he had 


104 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

been condemned to wander among the mountains till 
the end of time, still with the same feverish hopes at 
sunrise—the same despair at eve. Near this misera¬ 
ble Seeker sat a little elderly personage, wearing a 
high-crowned hat, shaped somewhat like a crucible. 
He was from beyond the sea, a Doctor Cacaphodel 
who had wilted and dried himself into a mummy, by 
continually stooping over charcoal furnaces, and in¬ 
haling unwholesome fumes, during his researches in 
chemistry and alchemy. It was told of him, whether 
truly or not, that, at the commencement of his studies, 
he had drained his body of all its richest blood, and 
wasted it, with other inestimable ingredients, in an 
unsuccessful experiment—and had never been a well 
man since. Another of the adventurers was Master 
Ichabod Pigsnort, a weighty merchant and selectman 
of Boston, and an elder of the famous Mr. Norton’s 
church. His enemies had a ridiculous story that Mas¬ 
ter Pigsnort was accustomed to spend a whole hour 
after prayer time, every morning and evening, in wal¬ 
lowing naked among an immense quantity of pine-tree 
shillings, which were the earliest silver coinage of Mas¬ 
sachusetts. The fourth whom we shall notice had no 
name that his companions knew of, and was chiefly 
distinguished by a sneer that always contorted his thin 
visage, and by a prodigious pair of spectacles, which 
were supposed to deform and discolor the whole face 
of nature to this gentleman’s perception. The fifth 
adventurer likewise lacked a name, which was the 
greater pity, as he appeared to be a poet. He was a 
bright-eyed man, but wofully pined away, which was 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


105 


no more than natural, if, as some people affirmed, his 
ordinary diet was fog, morning mist, and a slice of the 
densest cloud within his reach, sauced with moonshine, 
whenever he could get it. Certain it is, that the poetry 
which flowed from him had a smack of all these 
dainties. The sixth of the party was a young man of 
haughty mien, and sat somewhat apart from the rest, 
wearing his plumed hat loftily among his elders, while 
the fire glittered on the rich embroidery of his dress, 
and gleamed intensely on the jewelled pommel of his 
sword. This was the Lord de Vere, who, when at 
home, was said to spend much of his time in the burial 
vault of his dead progenitors, rummaging their mouldy 
coffins in search of all the earthly pride and vainglory 
that was hidden among bones and dust; so that, be¬ 
sides his own share, he had the collected haughtiness 
of his whole line of ancestry. 

Lastly, there was a handsome youth in rustic garb, 
and by his side, a blooming little person, in whom a 
delicate shade of maiden reserve was just melting into 
the rich glow of a young wife’s affection. Her name 
was Hannah, and her husband’s Matthew; two homely 
names, yet well enough adapted to the simple pair, 
who seemed strangely out of place among the whim¬ 
sical fraternity whose wits had been set agog by the 
Great Carbuncle. 

Beneath the shelter of one hut, in the bright blaze 
of the same fire, sat this varied group of adventurers, 
all so intent upon a single object, that, of whatever 
else they began to speak, their closing words were 
sure to be illuminated with the Great Carbuncle. 


106 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

Several related the circumstances that brought them 
thither. One had listened to a traveler’s tale of this 
marvelous stone in his own distant country, and had 
immediately been seized with such a thirst for behold¬ 
ing it as could only be quenched in its intensest 
lustre. Another, so long ago as when the famous 
Captain Smith visited these coasts, had seen it blazing 
far at sea, and had felt no rest in all the intervening 
years, till now that he took up the search. A third, 
being encamped on a hunting expedition full forty 
miles south of the White Mountains, awoke at mid¬ 
night, and beheld the Great Carbuncle gleaming like 
a meteor, so that the shadows of the trees fell back¬ 
ward from it. They spoke of the innumerable at¬ 
tempts which had been made to reach the spot, and of 
the singular fatality which had hitherto withheld suc¬ 
cess from all adventurers, though it might seem so 
easy to follow to its source a light that overpowered 
the moon, and almost matched the sun. It was ob¬ 
servable that each smiled scornfully at the madness of 
every other in anticipating better fortune than the 
past, yet nourished a scarcely hidden conviction that 
he would himself be the favored one. As if to allay 
their too sanguine hopes, they recurred to the Indian 
traditions that a spirit kept watch about the gem, and 
bewildered those who sought it either by removing it 
from peak to peak of the higher hills, or by calling up 
a mist from the enchanted lake over which it hung. 
But these tales were deemed unworthy of credit, all 
professing to believe that the search had been baffled 
by want of sagacity or perseverance in the adventur- 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


107 


ers, or such other causes as might naturally obstruct 
the passage to any given point, among the intricacies 
of forest, valley, and mountain. 

In a pause of the conversation, the wearer of the 
prodigious spectacles looked round upon the party, 
making each individual, in turn, the object of the 
sneer which invariably dwelt upon his countenance. 

“So, fellow-pilgrims ,’’ said he, “here we are, seven 
wise men, and one fair damsel—who, doubtless, is as 
wise as any graybeard of the company: here we are, 
I say, all bound on the same goodly enterprise. Me- 
thinks, now, it were not amiss that each of us declare 
what he proposes to do with the Great Carbuncle, 
provided he have the good hap to clutch it. What 
says our friend in the bear skin? How mean you, 
good sir, to enjoy the prize which you have been seek¬ 
ing, the Lord knows how long, among the Crystal 
Hills?” 

‘ 4 How enjoy it! ” exclaimed the aged Seeker, bit¬ 
terly. “I hope for no enjoyment from it; that folly 
has passed long ago. I keep up the search for this 
accursed stone because the vain ambition of my youth 
has become a fate upon me in old age. The pur-' 
suit alone is my strength, the energy of my soul, 
the warmth of my blood, and the pith and marrow 
of my bones! Were I to turn my back upon it, I 
should fall down dead on the hither side of the Notch, 
which is the gateway of this mountain region. Yet 
not to have my wasted lifetime back again would I 
give up my hopes of the Great Carbuncle! Having 
found it, I shall bear it to a certain cavern that I wot 


108 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


of, and there, grasping it in my arms, lie down and 
die, and keep it buried with me forever. ’ * 

“0 wretch, regardless of the interests of science!” 
cried Doctor Cacaphodel, with philosophic indigna¬ 
tion. “Thou art not worthy to behold, even from 
afar off, the lustre of this most precious gem that ever 
w r as concocted in the laboratory of Nature. Mine is 
the sole purpose for which a wise man may desire the 
possession of the Great Carbuncle. Immediately on 
obtaining it—for I have a presentiment, good people, 
that the prize is reserved to crown my scientific repu¬ 
tation—I shall return to Europe, and employ my re¬ 
maining years in reducing it to its first elements. A 
portion of the stone will I grind to impalpable pow¬ 
der; other parts shall he dissolved in acids, or what¬ 
ever solvents will act upon so admirable a composi¬ 
tion ; and the remainder I design to melt in the cruci¬ 
ble, or set on fire with the blow-pipe. By these various 
methods, I shall gain an accurate analysis, and finally 
bestow the result of my labors upon the world in a 
folio volume.’’ 

“Excellent!” quoth the man with the spectacles. 
“Nor need you hesitate, learned sir, on account of the 
necessary destruction of the gem; since the perusal 
of your folio may teach every mother’s son of us to 
concoct a Great Carbuncle of his own.” 

“But, verily,” said Master Ichabod Pigsnort, “for 
mine own part I object to the making of these coun¬ 
terfeits, as being calculated to reduce the marketable 
value of the true gem. I tell ye frankly, sirs, I have 
an interest in keeping up the price. Here have I 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


109 


quitted my regular traffic, leaving my warehouse in 
the care of my clerks, and putting my credit to great 
hazard, and, furthermore, have put myself in peril of 
death or captivity by the accursed heathen savages— 
and all this without daring to ask the prayers of the 
congregation, because the quest for the Great Car¬ 
buncle is deemed little better than a traffic with the 
Evil One. Now think ye that I would have done this 
grievous wrong to my soul, body, reputation, and 
estate, without a reasonable chance of profit?” 

“Not I, pious Master Pigsnort,” said the man with 
the spectacles. “I never laid such a great folly to 
thy charge.” 

“Truly, I hope not,” said the merchant. “Now, 
as touching this Great Carbuncle, I am free to own 
that I have never had a glimpse of it; but be it only 
the hundredth part so bright as people tell, it will 
surely outvalue the Great Mogul’s best diamond, which 
he holds at an incalculable sum. Wherefore, I am 
minded to put the Great Carbuncle on shipboard, and 
voyage with it to England, France, Spain, Italy, or 
into Heathendom, if Providence should send me 
thither, and, in a word, dispose of the gem to the best 
bidder among the potentates of the earth, that he may 
place it among his crown jewels. If any of ye have a 
wiser plan, let him expound it.” 

“That have I, thou sordid man!” exclaimed the 
poet. “Dost thou desire nothing brighter than gold, 
that thou wouldst transmute all this ethereal lustre 
into such dross as thou wallowest in already? For 
myself, hiding the jewel under my cloak, I shall hie 


110 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

me back to my attic chamber, in one of the darksome 
alleys of London. There, night and day, will I gaze 
upon it; my soul shall drink its radiance; it shall 
be diffused throughout my intellectual powers, and 
gleam brightly in every line of poesy that I indite. 
Thus, long ages after I am gone, the splendor of the 
Great Carbuncle will blaze around my name!” 

“Well said, Master Poet!” cried he of the specta¬ 
cles. “Hide it under thy cloak, sayest thou? Why, 
it will gleam through the holes, and make thee look 
like a jack-o ’-lantern! ’ 9 

“To think!” ejaculated the Lord de Vere, rather 
to himself than his companions, the best of whom he 
held utterly unworthy of his intercourse—“to think 
that a fellow in a tattered cloak should talk of convey¬ 
ing the Great Carbuncle to a garret in Grub Street! 
Have not I resolved within myself that the whole 
earth contains no fitter ornament for the great hall of 
my ancestral castle? There shall it flame for ages, 
making a noonday of midnight, glittering on the suits 
of armor, the banners, and escutcheons, that hang 
around the wall, and keeping down the memory of 
heroes. Wherefore have all other adventurers sought 
the prize in vain, but that I might win it, and make it 
a symbol of the glories of our lofty line ? And never, 
on the diadem of the White Mountains, did the Great 
Carbuncle hold a place half so honored as is reserved 
for it in the hall of the De Veres!” 

“It is a noble thought,” said,the Cynic, with an ob¬ 
sequious sneer. “Yet, might I presume to say so, the 
gem would make a rare sepulchral lamp, and would 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


111 


display the glories of your lordship’s progenitors more 
truly in the ancestral vault than in the castle hall. ’ ’ 

“Nay, forsooth,” observed Matthew, the young rus¬ 
tic, who sat hand in hand with his bride, ‘ ‘ the gentle¬ 
man has bethought himself of a profitable use for this 
bright stone. Hannah here and I are seeking it for a 
like purpose.” 

“How, fellow!” exclaimed his lordship, in surprise. 
“What castle hall hast thou to hang it in?” 

“No castle,” replied Matthew, “but as neat a cot¬ 
tage as any within sight of the Crystal Hills. Ye 
must know, friends, that Hannah and I, being wedded 
the last week, have taken up the search of the Great 
Carbuncle, because we shall need its light in the long 
winter evenings; and it will be such a pretty thing to 
show the neighbors when they visit us. It will shine 
through the house so that we may pick up a pin in 
any corner, and will set all the windows agiowing as 
if there were a great fire of pine knots in the chimney. 
And then how pleasant, when we awake in the night, 
to be able to see one another’s face! ,, 

There was a general smile among the adventurers 
at the simplicity of the young couple’s project in re¬ 
gard to this wondrous and invaluable stone, with which 
the greatest monarch on earth might have been proud 
to adorn his palace. Especially the man with specta¬ 
cles, who had sneered at all the company in turn, now 
twisted his visage into such an expression of ill- 
natured mirth, that Matthew asked him, rather peev¬ 
ishly, what he himself meant to do with the Great 
Carbuncle. 


112 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


‘ ‘ The Great Carbuncle! ? ’ answered the Cynic, with 
ineffable scorn. “Why, you blockhead, there is no 
such thing in rerum natura. I have come three thou¬ 
sand miles, and am resolved to set my foot on every 
peak of these mountains, and poke my head into every 
chasm, for the sole purpose of demonstrating to the 
satisfaction of any man, one whit less an ass than thy¬ 
self, that the Great Carbuncle is all a humbug! ’ ’ 

Vain and foolish were the motives that had brought 
most of the adventurers to the Crystal Hills; but 
none so vain, so foolish, and so impious too, as that of 
the scoffer with the prodigious spectacles. He was 
one of those wretched and evil men whose yearnings 
are downward to the darkness, instead of heaven¬ 
ward, and who, could they but distinguish the lights 
which God hath kindled for us, would count the mid¬ 
night gloom their chiefest glory. As the Cynic spoke, 
several of the party were startled by a gleam of red 
splendor, that showed the huge shapes of the sur¬ 
rounding mountains, and the rock-bestrewn bed of the 
turbulent river, with an illumination unlike that of 
their fire on the trunks and black boughs of the 
forest trees. They listened for the roll of thunder, 
but heard nothing, and were glad that the tempest 
came not near them. The stars, those dial-points of 
heaven, now warned the adventurers to close their 
eyes on the blazing logs, and open them, in dreams, 
to the glow of the Great Carbuncle. 

The young married couple had taken their lodgings 
in the farthest corner of the wigwam, and were sep¬ 
arated from the rest of the party by a curtain of 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


113 


curiously-woven twigs, such as might have .hung, in 
deep festoons, around the bridal-bower of Eve. The 
modest little wife had wrought this piece of tapestry 
while the other guests were talking. She and her 
husband fell asleep with hands tenderly clasped, and 
awoke from visions of unearthly radiance to meet the 
more blessed light of one another’s eyes. They awoke 
at the same instant, and with one happy smile beam¬ 
ing over their two faces, which grew brighter with 
their consciousness of the reality of life and love. 
But no sooner did she recollect where they were, than 
the bride peeped through the interstices of the leafy 
curtain, and saw that the outer room of the hut was 
deserted. 

“Up, dear Matthew!” cried she, in haste. “The 
strange folk are all gone! Up, this very minute, or 
we shall lose the Great Carbuncle!” 

In truth, so little did these poor young people de¬ 
serve the mighty prize which had lured them thither, 
that they had slept peacefully all night, and till the 
summits of the hills were glittering with sunshine; 
while the other adventurers had tossed their limbs Tn 
feverish wakefulness, or dreamed of climbing preci¬ 
pices, and set off to realize their dreams with the 
earliest peep of dawn. But Matthew and Hannah, 
after their calm rest, were as light as two young deer, 
and merely stopped to say their prayers, and wash 
themselves in a cold pool of the Amonoosuck, and 
then to taste a morsel of food, ere they turned their 
faces to the mountain-side. It was a sweet emblem of 
conjugal affection, as they toiled up the difficult as- 


114 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


cent, gathering strength from the mutual aid which 
they afforded. After several little accidents, such as 
a torn robe, a lost shoe, and the entanglement of Han¬ 
nah’s hair in a bough, they reached the upper verge of 
the forest, and were now to pursue a more adven¬ 
turous course. The innumerable trunks and heavy 
foliage of the trees had hitherto shut in their thoughts, 
which now shrank affrighted from the region of wind 
and cloud and naked rocks and desolate sunshine, that 
rose immeasurably above them. They gazed back at 
the obscure wilderness which they had traversed, and 
longed to be buried again in its depths rather than 
trust themselves to so vast and visible a solitude. 

‘ ‘ Shall we go on ? ’ ’ said Matthew, throwing his arm 
round Hannah’s waist, both to protect her and to com¬ 
fort his heart by drawing her close to it. 

But the little bride, simple as she was, had a 
woman’s love of jewels, and could not forego the hope 
of possessing the very brightest in the world, in spite 
of the perils with which it must be won. 

“Let us climb a little higher,” whispered she, yet 
tremulously, as she turned her face upward to the 
lonely sky. 

“Come, then,” said Matthew, mustering his manly 
courage, and drawing her along with him; for she 
became timid again, the moment that he grew bold. 

And upward, accordingly, went the pilgrims of the 
Great Carbuncle, now treading upon the tops and 
thickly-interwoven branches of dwarf pines, which, by 
the growth of centuries, though mossy with age, had 
barely reached three feet in altitude. Next, they 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


115 


came to masses and fragments of naked rock, heaped 
confusedly together, like a cairn reared by giants in 
memory of a giant chief. In this bleak realm of 
upper air, nothing breathed, nothing grew; there was 
no life but what was concentrated in their two hearts; 
they had climbed so high that Nature herself seemed 
no longer to keep them company. She lingered be¬ 
neath them, within the verge of the forest trees, and 
sent a farewell glance after her children, as they 
strayed where her own green footprints had never 
been. But soon they were to be hidden from her eye. 
Densely and dark, the mists began to gather below, 
casting black spots of shadow on the vast landscape, 
and sailing heavily to one centre, as if the loftiest 
mountain peak had summoned a council of its kindred 
clouds. Finally, the vapors welded themselves, as it 
were, into a mass, presenting the appearance of a 
pavement over which the wanderers might have 
trodden, but where they would vainly have sought an 
avenue to the blessed earth which they had lost. And 
the lovers yearned to behold that green earth again, 
more intensely, alas! than, beneath a clouded sky, 
they had ever desired a glimpse of Heaven. They 
even felt it a relief to their desolation when the 
mists, creeping gradually up the mountain, concealed 
its lonely peak, and thus annihilated, at least for 
them, the whole region of visible space. But they 
drew closer together, with a fond and melancholy 
gaze, dreading lest the universal cloud should snatch 
them from each other's sight. 

Still, perhaps, they would have been resolute to 


116 


SHORT STOEIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


climb as far and as high, between earth and heaven, 
as they could find foothold, if Hannah’s strength had 
not begun to fail, and with that, her courage also. 
Her breath grew short. She refused to burden her 
husband with her weight, but often tottered against 
his side, and recovered herself each time by a feebler 
effort. At last, she sank down on one of the rocky 
steps of the acclivity. 

“We are lost, dear Matthew,” said she, mournfully. 
“We shall never find our way to the earth again. 
And oh, how happy we might have been in our 
cottage! ’ ’ 

“Dear heart!—we will yet be happy there,” an¬ 
swered Matthew. “Look! In this direction, the sun¬ 
shine penetrates the dismal mist. By its aid, I can 
direct our course to the passage of the Notch. Let 
us go back, love, and dream no more of the Great 
Carbuncle!” 

“The sun cannot be yonder,” said Hannah, with 
despondence. “By this time, it must be noon. If 
there could ever be any sunshine here, it would come 
from above our heads. ’ ’ 

“But look!” repeated Matthew, in a somewhat 
altered tone. “It is brightening every moment. If 
not sunshine, what can it be ? ” 

Nor could the young bride any longer deny that a 
radiance was breaking through the mist, and changing 
its dim hue to a dusky red, which continually grew 
more vivid, as if brilliant particles were interfused 
with the gloom. Now, also, the cloud began to roll 
away from the mountain, while, as it heavily with- 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


117 


drew, one object after another started out of its im¬ 
penetrable obscurity into sight, with precisely the 
effect of a new creation, before the indistinctness of 
the old chaos had been completely swallowed up. As 
the process went on, they saw the gleaming of water 
close at their feet, and found themselves on the very 
border of a mountain lake, deep, bright, clear, and 
calmly beautiful, spreading from brim to brim of a 
basin that had been scooped out of the solid rock. A 
ray of glory flashed across its surface. The pilgrims 
looked whence it should proceed, but closed their eyes 
with a thrill of awful admiration, to exclude the fervid 
splendor that glowed from the brow of a cliff impend¬ 
ing over the enchanted lake. For the simple pair had 
reached that lake of mystery, and found the long- 
sought shrine of the Great Carbuncle! 

They threw their arms around each other, and 
trembled at their own success; for, as the legends of 
this wondrous gem rushed thick upon their memory, 
they felt themselves marked out by fate—and the 
consciousness was fearful. Often, from childhood 
upward, they had seen it shining like a distant star. 
And now that star was throwing its intensest lustre on 
their hearts. They seemed changed to one another’s 
eyes> in the red brilliancy that flamed upon their 
cheeks, while it lent the same fire to the lake, the rocks, 
and sky, and to the mists which had rolled back before 
its power. But, with their next glance, they beheld an 
object that drew their attention even from the mighty 
stone. At the base of the cliff, directly beneath the 
Great Carbuncle, appeared the figure of a man, with 


118 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


his arms extended in the act of climbing, and his face 
turned upward, as if to drink the full gush of splendor. 
But he stirred not, no more than if changed to marble. 

‘ ‘It is the Seeker/’ whispered Hannah, convulsively 
grasping her husband’s arm. “Matthew, he is dead.” 

“The joy of success has killed him,” replied Mat¬ 
thew, trembling violently. “Or, perhaps the very 
light of the Great Carbuncle was death!” 

“The Great Carbuncle,” cried a peevish voice 
behind them. “The Great Humbug! If you have 
found it, prithee point it out to me.” 

They turned their heads, and there was the Cynic, 
with his prodigious spectacles set carefully on his 
nose, staring now at the lake, now at the rocks, now 
at the distant masses of vapor, now right at the Great 
Carbuncle itself, yet seemingly as unconscious of its 
light as if all the scattered clouds were condensed 
about his person. Though its radiance actually threw 
the shadow of the unbeliever at his own feet, as he 
turned his back upon the glorious jewel, he would not 
be convinced that there was the least glimmer there. 

“Where is your Great Humbug?” he repeated. 
* 1 1 challenge you to make me see it! ” 

“There,” said Matthew, incensed at such perverse 
blindness, and turning the Cynic round towards the 
illuminated cliff. “Take off those abominable spec¬ 
tacles, and you cannot help seeing it! ” 

Now these colored spectacles probably darkened the 
Cynic’s sight, in at least as great a degree as the 
smoked glasses through which people gaze at an 
eclipse. With resolute bravado, however, he snatched 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


119 


them from his nose, and fixed a bold stare full upon 
the ruddy blaze of the Great Carbuncle. But, scarcely 
had he encountered it, when, with a deep, shuddering 
groan, he dropped his head, and pressed both hands 
across his miserable eyes. Thenceforth there was, in 
very truth, no light of the Great Carbuncle, nor any 
other light on earth, nor light of Heaven itself, for the 
poor Cynic. So long accustomed to view all objects 
through a medium that deprived them of every glimpse 
of brightness, a single flash of so glorious a phenom¬ 
enon, striking upon his naked vision, had blinded him 
forever. 

“Matthew,” said Hannah, clinging to him, ‘Get us 
go hence! ’ ’ 

Matthew saw that she was faint, and kneeling down, 
supported her in his arms, while he threw some of the 
thrillingly cold water of the enchanted lake upon her 
face and bosom. It revived her, but could not reno¬ 
vate her courage. 

“Yes, dearest!” cried Matthew, pressing her tremu¬ 
lous form to his breast,—“we will go hence, and 
return to our humble cottage. The blessed sunshine 
and the quiet moonlight shall come through our win¬ 
dow. We will kindle the cheerful glow of our hearth, 
at eventide, and be happy in its light. But never 
again will we desire more light than all the world may 
share with us.” 

“No,” said his bride, “for how could we live by 
day, or sleep by night, in this awful blaze of the Great 
Carbuncle!” 

Out of the hollow of their hands, they drank each a 


120 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


draught from the lake, which presented them its waters 
uncontaminated by an earthly lip. Then, lending their 
guidance to the blinded Cynic, who uttered not a word, 
and even stifled his groans in his own most wretched 
heart, they began to descend the mountain. Yet, as 
they left the shore, till then untrodden, of the spirit’s 
lake, they threw a farewell glance towards the cliff, 
and beheld the vapors gathering in dense volumes, 
through which the gem burned duskily. 

As touching the other pilgrims of the Great Car¬ 
buncle, the legend goes on to tell that the worshipful 
Master Ichabod Pigsnort soon gave up the quest as a 
desperate speculation, and wisely resolved to betake 
himself again to his warehouse, near the town dock, in 
Boston. But, as he passed through the Notch of the 
mountains, a war party of Indians captured our un¬ 
lucky merchant, and carried him to Montreal, there 
holding him in bondage, till, by the payment of a 
heavy ransom, he had wofully subtracted from his 
hoard of pine-tree shillings. By his long absence, 
moreover, his affairs had become so disordered that, 
for the rest of his life, instead of wallowing in silver, 
he had seldom a sixpence worth of copper. Doctor 
Cacaphodel, the alchemist, returned to his laboratory 
with a prodigious fragment of granite, which he 
ground to powder, dissolved in acids, melted in the 
crucible, and burned with the blow-pipe, and published 
the result of his experiments in one of the heaviest 
folios of the day. And, for all these purposes, the 
gem itself could not have answered better than the 
granite. The poet, by a somewhat similar mistake, 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


121 


made prize of a great piece of ice, which he found in a 
sunless chasm of the mountains, and swore that it cor¬ 
responded, in all points, with his idea of the Great 
Carbuncle. The critics say, that, if his poetry lacked 
the splendor of the gem, it retained all the coldness of 
the ice. The Lord de Yere went back to his ancestral 
hall, where he contented himself with a wax-lighted 
chandelier, and filled, in due course of time, another 
coffin in the ancestral vault. As the funeral torches 
gleamed within that dark receptacle, there was no need 
of the Great Carbuncle to show the vanity of earthly 
pomp. 

The Cynic, having cast aside his spectacles, wan¬ 
dered about the world, a miserable object, and was 
punished with an agonizing desire of light, for the wil¬ 
ful blindness of his former life. The whole night long, 
he would lift his splendor-blasted orbs to the moon 
and stars; he turned his face eastward, at sunrise, as 
duly as a Persian idolater; he made a pilgrimage to 
Rome, to witness the magnificent illumination of St. 
Peter’s Church; and finally perished in the great fire 
of London, into the midst of which he had thrust him¬ 
self, with the desperate idea of catching one feeble ray 
from the blaze that was kindling earth and heaven. 

Matthew and his bride spent many peaceful years, 
and were fond of telling the legend of the Great Car¬ 
buncle. The tale, however, towards the close of their 
lengthened lives, did not meet with the full credence 
that had been accorded to it by those who remembered 
the ancient lustre of the gem. For it is affirmed that, 
from the hour when two mortals had shown themselves 


122 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


so simply wise as to reject a jewel which would have 
dimmed all earthly things, its splendor waned. When 
other pilgrims reached the cliff, they found only an 
opaque stone, with particles of mica glittering on its 
surface. There is also a tradition that, as the youth¬ 
ful pair departed, the gem was loosened from the fore¬ 
head of the cliff, and fell into the enchanted lake, and 
that, at noontide, the Seeker’s form may still be seen 
to bend over its quenchless gleam. 

Some few believe that this inestimable stone is 
blazing as of old, and say that they have caught its 
radiance, like a flash of summer lightning, far down 
the valley of the Saco. And be it owned that, many 
a mile from the Crystal Hills, I saw a wondrous 
light around their summits, and was lured, by the 
faith of poesy, to be the latest pilgrim of the Great 
Carbuncle. 


Nathaniel Hawthorne, 1804 - 1864 . 

Nathaniel Hawthorne was born at Salem, Massachusetts. 
Upon the early death of his father, the family moved to 
Maine, where, until he entered Bowdoin College, he spent a 
large part of his time in rambling through the woods, recording 
his observations, and enjoying an environment not unlike James 
Fenimore Cooper’s. After graduating from college, he ob¬ 
tained a position in the custom house at Boston, though he 
soon resigned to enter upon a life of literary seclusion in his 
native town. Until his appointment as consul to Liverpool by 
his friend, President Pierce, he spent his time in brooding, 
dreaming, and contributing to the magazines. Except for 
three years spent in the old Emerson Manse at Concord, and 
his brief residence with the Brook Farm Colony, he lived in 
Salem. After discharging his duties for four years in Liver- 


THE GREAT CARBUNCLE 


123 


pool, he went to the continent to regain his health. After 
seven years abroad he returned to Concord, where he remained 
until his death. 

His writings are permeated with a certain atmosphere of 
simplicity, purity, fanciful imagination, contemplation,—the 
four dominant qualities of his mind. In his quietly humorous, 
easy-flowing style of expressing these qualities lies his charm. 
While he is not, perhaps, so widely known as Poe, yet, where 
he is known, he is considered by many to be preeminently the 
literary artist of America. Moreover, he ranks among the 
great modern short-story writers. Henry James calls him “the 
most eminent representative of a literature, the most valuable 
example of American genius.” 

The quantity of Hawthorne’s works is not large. It con¬ 
sists of four novels, four volumes of short-stories, a collection 
of sketches, and two books of stories for children. 

Suggested Readings: Mr. Higginbotham's Catastrophe, 
The White Old Maid, Legends of the Province House, The 
Ambitious Guest, Young Goodman Brown, The BirthmarTc, 
Bappaccini's Daughter, A Bill from the Town Pump, David 
Swan, Old Esther Dudley, Dr. Heidegger's Secret. 


THE BLACK CAT 


For the most wild, yet most homely narrative which 
I am about to pen, I neither expect nor solicit belief. 
Mad indeed would I be to expect it in a case where my 
very senses reject their own evidence. Yet mad am I 
not, and very surely do I not dream. But to-morrow 
I die, and to-day I would unburden my soul. My 
immediate purpose is to place before the world plainly, 
succinctly, and without comment, a series of mere 
household events. In their consequences these events 
have terrified—have tortured—have destroyed me. 
Yet I will not attempt to expound them. To me they 
presented little but horror—to many they will seem 
less terrible than baroques. Hereafter, perhaps, some 
intellect may be found which will reduce my phantasm 
to the commonplace—some intellect more calm, more 
logical, and far less excitable than my own, which will 
perceive, in the circumstances I detail with awe, noth¬ 
ing more than an ordinary succession of very natural 
causes and effects. 

From my infancy I was noted for the docility and 
humanity of my disposition. My tenderness of heart 
was even so conspicuous as to make me the jest of my 
companions. I was especially fond of animals, and 
was indulged by my parents with a great variety of 
pets. With theseH spent most of my time, and never 
was so happy as when feeding and caressing them. 
This peculiarity of character grew with my growth, 
and in my manhood I derived from it one of my prin- 
124 


THE BLACK CAT 


125 


cipal sources of pleasure. To those who have cherished 
an affection for a faithful and sagacious dog, I need 
hardly be at the trouble of explaining the nature or the 
intensity of the gratification thus derivable. There is 
something in the unselfish and self-sacrificing love of a 
brute which goes directly to the heart of him who has 
had frequent occasion to test the paltry friendship and 
gossamer fidelity of mere Man. 

I married early, and was happy to find in my wife a 
disposition not uncongenial with my own. Observing 
my partiality for domestic pets, she lost no opportu¬ 
nity of procuring those of the most agreeable kind. 
We had birds, gold-fish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small 
monkey, and a cat. 

This latter was a remarkably large and beautiful 
animal, entirely black, and sagacious to an astonishing 
degree. In speaking of his intelligence, my wife, who 
at heart was not a little tinctured with superstition, 
made frequent allusion to the ancient popular notion 
which regarded all black cats as witches in disguise. 
Not that she was ever serious upon this point, and I 
mention the matter at all for no better reason than 
that it happens, just now, to be remembered. 

Pluto—this was the cat’s name—was my favorite pet 
and playmate. I alone fed him, and he attended me 
wherever I went about the house. It was even with 
difficulty that I could prevent him from following me 
through the streets. 

Our friendship lasted in this manner for several 
years, during which my general temperament and 
character—through the instrumentality of the Fiend 


126 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Intemperance—had (I blush to confess it) experienced 
a radical alteration for the worse. I grew, day by 
day, more moody, more irritable, more regardless of 
the feelings of others. I suffered myself to use intem¬ 
perate language to my wife. A length, I even offered 
her personal violence. My pets, of course, were made 
to feel the change in my disposition. I not only neg¬ 
lected, but ill-used them. For Pluto, however, I still 
retained sufficient regard to restrain me from mal¬ 
treating him, as I made no scruple of maltreating the 
rabbits, the monkey, or even the dog, when by acci¬ 
dent, or through affection, they came in my way. But 
my disease grew upon me—for what disease is like 
Alcohol?—and at length even Pluto, who was now 
becoming old, and consequently somewhat peevish— 
even Pluto began to experience the effects of my ill- 
temper. 

One night, returning home much intoxicated from 
one of my haunts about town, I fancied that the cat 
avoided my presence. I seized him, when, in his 
fright at my violence, he inflicted a. slight wound upon 
my hand with his teeth. The fury of a demon in¬ 
stantly possessed me. I knew myself no longer. My 
original soul seemed at once to take its flight from my 
body, and a more than fiendish malevolence, gin- 
nurtured, thrilled every fiber of my frame. I took 
from my waistcoat-pocket a pen-knife, opened it, 
grasped the poor beast by the throat, and deliberately 
cut one of its eyes from the socket! I blush, I burn, I 
shudder, while I pen the damnable atrocity. 

When reason returned with the morning—when I 


THE BLACK CAT 


127 


had slept off the fumes of the night’s debauch—I ex¬ 
perienced a sentiment half of horror, half of remorse, 
for the crime of which I had been guilty; but it was, at 
best, a feeble and equivocal feeling, and the soul re¬ 
mained untouched. I again plunged into excess, and 
soon drowned in wine all memory of the deed. 

In the meantime the cat slowly recovered. The 
socket of the lost eye presented, it is true, a. frightful 
appearance, but he no longer appeared to suffer any 
pain. He went about the house as usual, but, as might 
be expected, fled in extreme terror at my approach. I 
had so much of my old heart left as to be at first 
grieved by this evident dislike on the part of a crea¬ 
ture which had once so loved me. But this feeling 
soon gave place to irritation. And then came, as if to 
my final and irrevocable overthrow, the spirit of Per¬ 
verseness. Of this spirit philosophy takes no account. 
Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives than I am 
that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of 
the human heart—one of the indivisible primary fac¬ 
ulties or sentiments which give direction to the char¬ 
acter of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found 
himself committing a vile or a silly action for no other 
reason than because he knows he should not? Have 
w r e not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best 
judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because 
we understand it to be such ? This spirit of perverse¬ 
ness, I say, came to my final overthrow. It was this 
unfathomable longing of the soul to vex itself —to 
offer violence to its own nature—to do wrong for the 
wrong’s sake only—that urged me to continue and 


128 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


finally to consummate the injury I had inflicted upon 
the unoffending brute. One morning, in cool blood, I 
slipped a noose about its neck and hung it to the limb 
of a tree; hung it with the tears streaming from my 
eyes, and with the bitterest remorse at my heart; hung 
it because I knew that it had loved me, and because I 
felt it had given me no reason of offense; hung it 
because I knew that in so doing I was committing a 
sin—a deadly sin that would so jeopardize my im¬ 
mortal soul as to place it, if such a thing were pos¬ 
sible, even beyond the reach of the infinite mercy of 
the Most Merciful and Most Terrible God. 

On the night of the day on which this cruel deed 
was done, I was aroused from sleep by the cry of fire. 
The curtains of my bed were in flames. The whole 
house was blazing. It was with great difficulty that 
my wife, a servant, and myself, made our escape from 
the conflagration. The destruction was complete. My 
entire worldly wealth was swallowed up, and I re¬ 
signed myself thenceforward to despair. 

I am above the weakness of seeking to establish a 
sequence of cause and effect between the disaster and 
the atrocity. But I am detailing a chain of facts, and 
wish not to leave even a possible link imperfect. On 
the day succeeding the fire, I visited the ruins. The 
walls with one exception had fallen in. This excep¬ 
tion was found in a compartment wall, not very thick, 
which stood about the middle of the house, and against 
which had rested the head of my bed. The plastering 
had here in great measure resisted the action of the 
fire, a fact which I attributed to its having been 


THE BLACK CAT 


129 


recently spread. About this wall a dense crowd were 
collected, and many persons seemed to be examining a 
particular portion of it with very minute and eager 
attention. The words “Strange!” “Singular!” and 
other similar expressions, excited my curiosity. I 
approached and saw, as if graven in has relief upon 
the white surface, the figure of a gigantic cat . The 
impression was given with an accuracy truly marvel¬ 
ous. There was a rope about the animal’s neck. 

When I first beheld this apparition—for I could 
scarcely regard it as less—my wonder and my terror 
were extreme. But at length reflection came to my 
aid. The cat, I remembered, had been hung in a gar¬ 
den adjacent to the house. Upon the alarm of fire, 
this garden had been immediately filled by the crowd, 
by some one of whom the animal must have been cut 
from the tree and thrown through an open window 
into my chamber. This had probably been done with 
the view of arousing me from sleep. The falling of 
other walls had compressed the victim of my cruelty 
into the substance of the freshly-spread plaster; the 
lime of which, with the flames and the ammonia from 
the carcass, had then accomplished the portraiture as 
I saw it. 

Although I thus readily accounted to my reason, if 
not altogether to my conscience, for the startling fact 
just detailed, it did not the less fail to make a deep im¬ 
pression upon my fancy. For months I could not rid 
myself of the phantasm of the cat, and during this 
period there came back into my spirit a half-sentiment 
that seemed, but was not, remorse. I went so far as 


130 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


to regret the loss of the animal, and to look about me 
among the vile haunts which I now habitually fre¬ 
quented for another pet of the same species, and of 
somewhat similar appearance, with which to supply 
its place. 

One night, as I sat half-stupefied in a den of more 
than infamy, my attention was suddenly drawn to 
some black object, reposing upon the head of one of 
the immense hogsheads of gin or of rum, which con¬ 
stituted the chief furniture of the apartment. I had 
been looking steadily at the top of his hogshead for 
some minutes, and what now caused me surprise was 
the fact that I had not sooner perceived the object 
thereupon. I approached it, and touched it with my 
hand. It was a black cat—a very large one—fully as 
large as Pluto, and closely resembling him in every 
respect but one. Pluto had not a white hair upon any 
portion of his body; but this cat had a large, although 
indefinite, splotch of white, covering nearly the whole 
region of the breast. 

Upon my touching him, he immediately arose, 
purred loudly, rubbed against my hand, and appeared 
delighted with my notice. This, then, was the very 
creature of which I was in search. I at once offered 
to purchase it of the landlord; but this person made 
no claim to it, knew nothing of it, had never seen it 
before. 

I continued my caresses, and when I prepared to go 
home, the animal evinced a. disposition to accompany 
me. I permitted it to do so, occasionally stooping 
and patting it as I proceeded. When it reached the 


THE BLACK CAT 


131 


house it domesticated itself at once, and became im¬ 
mediately a great favorite with my wife. 

For my own part, I soon found a dislike to it arising 
within me. This was just the reverse of what I had 
anticipated, but—I know not how or why it was—its 
evident fondness for myself rather disgusted and 
annoyed. By slow degrees these feelings of disgust 
and annoyance rose into the bitterness of hatred. I 
avoided the creature; a certain sense of shame, and 
the remembrance of my former deed of cruelty, pre¬ 
venting me from physically abusing it. I did not, for 
some weeks, strike or otherwise violently ill-use it, but 
gradually—very gradually—I came to look upon it 
with unutterable loathing, and to flee silently from its 
odious presence as, from the breath of a pesti¬ 
lence. 

What added, no doubt, to my hatred of the beast, 
was the discovery, on the morning after I brought it 
home, that, like Pluto, it also had been deprived of 
one of its eyes. This circumstance, however, only 
endeared it to my wife, who, as I have already said, 
possessed in a high degree that humanity of feeling 
which had once been my distinguishing trait, and the 
source of many of my simplest and purest pleasures. 

With my aversion to this cat, however, its partiality 
for myself seemed to increase. It followed my foot¬ 
steps with a pertinacity which it would be difficult to 
make the reader comprehend. Whenever I sat, it 
would crouch beneath my chair or spring upon my 
knees, covering me with its loathsome caresses. If I 
arose to walk, it would get between my feet and thus 


132 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

nearly throw me down, or, fastening its long 
sharp claws in my dress, clamber in this manner to : v 
breast. At such times, although I longed to destroy 
it with a blow, I was yet withheld from so doing, 
partly by a memory of my former crime, but chiefly 
—let me confess it at once—by absolute dread of the 
beast. 

This dread was not exactly a dread of physical evil 
—and yet I should be at a loss how otherwise to define 
it. I am almost ashamed to own—yes, even in this 
felon’s cell, I am almost ashamed to own—that the 
terror and horror with which the animal inspired me 
had been heightened by one of the merest chimeras it 
would be possible to conceive. My wife had called 
my attention more than once to file character of the. 
mark of white hair, of which I have spoken, and which 
constituted the sole visible difference between the 
strange beast and the one I had destroyed. The 
reader will remember that this mark, although large, 
had been originally very indefinite, but by slow de¬ 
grees—degrees nearly imperceptible, and which for a 
long time my reason struggled to reject as fanciful— 
it had at length assumed a rigorous distinctness of 
outline. It was now the representation of an object 
that I shudder to name—and for this, above all, I 
loathed and dreaded and would have rid myself of the 
monster had I dared —it was now, I say, the image of a 
hideous—of a ghastly thing—of the Gallows! —Oh! 
mournful and terrible engine of horror and of crime 
—of agony and of death! 

And now was I indeed wretched beyond the wretch- 


THE BLACK CAT 


133 


edness of mere humanity. And a brute beast —whose 
fellow I had contemptuously destroyed —a brute beast 
to work out for me —for me, a man, fashioned in the 
image of the High God—so much of insufferable woe! 
Alas! neither by day nor by night knew I the blessing 
of rest any more! During the former the creature 
left me no moment alone; and in the latter I started 
hourly from dreams of unutterable fear, to find the 
hot breath of the thing upon my face, and its vast 
weight—an incarnate nightmare that I had no power 
to shake off—incumbent eternally upon my heart! 

Beneath the pressure of torments such as these, the 
feeble remnant of the good within me succumbed. 
Evil thoughts became ray sole intimates—the darkest 
and most evil of thoughts. The moodiness of my 
usual temper increased to hatred of all things and of 
'll mankind; while from the sudden frequent and un¬ 
governable outbursts of a fury to which I now blindly 
abandoned myself, my uncomplaining wife, alas! was 
the most usual and the most patient of sufferers. 

One day she accompanied me upon some household 
errand into the cellar of the old building which our 
poverty compelled us to inhabit. The cat followed 
me down the steep stairs, and nearly throwing me 
headlong, exasperated me to madness. Uplifting an 
ax, and forgetting in my wrath the childish dread 
which had hitherto stayed my hand, I aimed a blow at 
the animal, which of course would have proved in¬ 
stantly fatal had it descended as I wished. But this 
blow was arrested by the hand of my wife. Goaded 
by the interference into a rage more than demoniacal, 


134 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


I withdrew my arm from her grasp and buried the ax 
in her brain. She fell dead upon the spot, without a 
groan. 

This hideous murder accomplished, I set myself 
forthwith and with entire deliberation to the task of 
concealing the body. I knew that I could not remove 
it from the house, either by day or by night, without 
the risk of being observed by the neighbors. Many 
projects entered my mind. At one period I thought 
of cutting the corpse into minute fragments and de¬ 
stroying them by fire. At another I resolved to dig a 
grave for it in the floor of the cellar. Again, I delib¬ 
erated about casting it into the well in the yard—about 
packing it in a box, as if merchandise, with the usual 
arrangements, and so getting a porter to take it from 
the house. Finally I hit upon what I considered a 
far better expedient than either of these. I deter¬ 
mined to wall it up in the cellar—as the monks of the 
middle ages are recorded to have walled up their 
victims. 

For a purpose such as this the cellar was well 
adapted. Its walls were loosely constructed and had 
lately been plastered throughout with a rough plaster, 
which the dampness of the atmosphere had prevented 
from hardening. Moreover, in one of the walls was 
a projection caused by a false chimney or fireplace, 
that had been filled up and made to resemble the rest 
of the cellar. I made no doubt that I could readily 
displace the bricks at this point, insert the corpse, and 
wall the whole up as before, so that no eye could 
detect anything suspicious. 


THE BLACK CAT 


135 


And in this calculation I was not deceived. By 
means of a crowbar I easily dislodged the bricks, and 
having carefully deposited the body against the inner 
wall, I propped it in that position, while with little 
trouble I relaid the whole structure as it originally 
stood. Having procured mortar, sand, and hair with 
every possible precaution, I prepared a plaster which 
could not be distinguished from the old, and with this 
I very carefully went over the new brick-work. When 
I had finished I felt satisfied that all was right. The 
wall did not present the slightest appearance of having 
been disturbed. The rubbish on the floor was picked 
up with the minutest care. I looked around trium¬ 
phantly, and said to myself—“Here at last, then, my 
labor has not been in vain.” 

My next step was to look for the beast which had 
been the cause of so much wretchedness, for I had at 
length firmly resolved to put it to death. Had I been 
able to meet with it at the moment, there could have 
been no doubt of its fate, but it appeared that the 
crafty animal had been alarmed at the violence of my 
previous anger, and forbore to present itself in my 
present mood. It is impossible to describe or to im¬ 
agine the deep, the blissful sense of relief which the 
absence of the detested creature occasioned in my 
bosom. It did not make its appearance during the 
night—and thus for one night at least since its intro¬ 
duction into the house I soundly and tranquilly slept, 
aye, slept even with the burden of murder upon my 
soul! 

The second and the third day passed, and still my 


136 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


tormentor came not. Once again I breathed as a free¬ 
man. The monster, in terror, had fled , the premises 
forever! I should behold it no more! My happiness 
was supreme! The guilt of my dark deed disturbed 
me but little. Some few inquiries had been made, but 
these had been readily answered. Even a search had 
been instituted—but of course nothing was to be 
discovered. I looked upon my future felicity as 
secured. 

Upon the fourth day of the assassination, a party of 
the police came very unexpectedly into the house, and 
proceeded again to make rigorous investigation of the 
premises. Secure, however, in the inscrutability of my 
place of concealment, I felt no embarrassment what¬ 
ever. The officers bade me accompany them in their 
search. They left no nook or corner unexplored. At 
length, for the third or fourth time, they descended 
into the cellar. I quivered not in a muscle. My heart 
beat as calmly as that of one who slumbers in inno¬ 
cence. I walked the cellar from end to end. I folded 
my arms upon my bosom, and roamed easily to and 
fro. The police were thoroughly satisfied, and pre¬ 
pared to depart. The glee at my heart was too strong 
to be restrained. I burned to say if but one word by 
way of triumph, and to render doubly sure their 
assurance of my guiltlessness. 

“Gentlemen,” I said at last, as the party ascended 
the steps, “I delight to have allayed your suspicions. 
I wish you all health, and a little more courtesy. By 
the by, gentlemen, this—this is a very well constructed 
house.” [In the rabid desire to say something easily, 


THE BLACK CAT 


137 


I scarcely knew what I uttered at all.] ‘‘ I may say an 
excellently well-constructed house. These walls—are 
you going, gentlemen?—these walls are solidly put 
together”; and here, through the mere frenzy of 
bravado, I rapped heavily with a cane which I held 
in my hand upon that very portion of the brick-work 
behind which stood the corpse of the wife of my 
bosom. 

But may God shield and deliver me from the fangs 
of the arch-fiend! No sooner had the reverberation of 
my blows sunk into silence than I was answered by a 
voice from within the tomb!—by a cry, at first muf¬ 
fled and broken, like the sobbing of a child, and then 
quickly swelling into one long, loud, and continuous 
scream, utterly anomalous and inhuman—a howl—a 
wailing shriek, half of horror and half of triumph, 
such as might have arisen only out of hell, conjointly 
from the throats of the damned in their agony and of 
the demons that exult in the damnation. 

Of my own thoughts it is folly to speak. Swoon¬ 
ing, I staggered to the opposite wall. For one instant 
the party upon the stairs remained motionless, through 
extremity of terror and of awe. In the next a dozen 
stout arms were toiling at the wall. It fell bodily. 
The corpse, already greatly decayed and clotted with 
gore, stood erect before the eyes of the spectators. 
Upon its head, with red extended mouth and solitary 
eye of fire, sat the hideous beast whose craft had 
seduced me into murder, and whose informing voice 
had consigned me to the hangman. I had walled the 
monster up within the tomb! 


138 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 
Edgar Allan Poe, 1809 - 1849 . 

The erratic and pathetic career of one of the most brilliant 
figures in American literature is of peculiar interest. Edgar 
Allan Poe, the only child of a respected southern family, was 
left an orphan at an early age. He was at once adopted by a 
wealthy Virginian and, later, taken to England, where for five 
years he was trained in a classical school in London. Return¬ 
ing to Virginia, he entered the state university. From this 
institution he was graduated with honors. Later, he joined 
the insurgent Greek army and won the title of sergeant-major. 
Again returning to America, he entered West Point, from 
which he was dismissed. Upon the death of his adopted 
father, from whom he had become estranged, he found himself 
disinherited and penniless. As a means of support, he applied 
himself to literature, a genius for which he had shown even 
in his early college days. Within ten years he was the editor 
of five magazines, some of the leading ones of the day, and a 
contributor to many more. He died at Baltimore while on a 
lecture trip through the South. 

The large amount and the great variety of his writings show 
the versatility of his vigorous, highly imaginative, and analytic 
mind. To his seventy tales, some stories of an analytical 
nature, some stories of conscience, others pure fantasy, and 
many mere adventure narratives, may be added three volumes 
of critical writings, and numerous poems. Of the latter, The 
Haven, The Bells, and Annabel Lee are perhaps best known. 

It is not out of place to add that Poe himself considered the 
short-story as “affording unquestionably the fairest field for 
the exercise of the loftiest talent which can be afforded by the 
wide domain of mere prose.” His own short-stories have been 
translated into several languages. Moreover, they have estab¬ 
lished the short-story as a distinct form of art, and have been the 
school to which both American and European writers have gone. 

Suggested Readings: The Gold Bug, The Purloined Letter, 
The Pit and the Pendulum, The Tell-Tale Heart, Fall of the 
House of TJsher, MS. Found in a Bottle, The Murders in the 
Hue Morgue, The Cash of Amontillado. 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 
I 

In a little village of Galicia, in the year 1808, there 
lived a certain druggist, Garcia de Peredes, a misan¬ 
thropic bachelor, and a descendant of that illustrious 
gentleman who used to kill a bull at one blow. 

It was a cold, dark night in autumn. The sky was 
shrouded by heavy, dark clouds, and the total absence 
of earthly light allowed the darkness to have full 
sway in all the streets and squares of the small town. 

About ten o ’clock of that awful night, there 
poured into a square, which to-day would be called 
the Constitution, a silent group of shadows, even 
blacker than the darkness surrounding them. They 
advanced toward the drug store of Garcia de Peredes, 
which had been tightly closed since sunset, half past 
eight. 

“What shall we do?” asked one of the shadows in 
pure Galician. 

“No one has seen us,” observed another. 

“Let us knock down the door,” proposed a third, 
a woman. 

‘ ‘ And kill them, ’ ’ murmured at least a dozen voices. 

“I shall take charge of the apothecary,” exclaimed 
a youth. 

“We shall all take hold of him.” 

“For being a Jew?” 

1. Translated from the Spanish by J. Richard Hardy, Instructor 
in Spanish, Detroit Central High School. 

139 


140 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


‘‘For being a French sympathizer!’’ 

‘ ‘ They say that to-day twenty Frenchmen dine with 
him.” 

“I believe it, and, as they know they are secure 
there, they have come en masse.” 

“Oh, if it were in my house, I’d have him thrown 
into the well, to my credit.” 

“My wife beheaded one yesterday.” 

“And I,” said a monk with a voice like a wind 
instrument, “have asphyxiated two captains by leav¬ 
ing charcoal burning in their cell.” 

“And the infamous druggist protects them!” 

‘ ‘ How demonstrative he was yesterday, out walking 
with those excommunicated villains.” 

“Who would have thought that of Garcia de 
Paredes? It is not a. month since he was the most 
valiant, the most patriotic man, in the town.” 

‘ ‘ Why, didn’t he sell the photographs of Ferdinand 
in his drug store ? ’ ’ 

“And now he sells those of Napoleon!” 

“Before he aroused us against the invaders. . . .” 

“And since they came to Padron, he has gone over 
to them.” 

“And to-night he dines all the chief men!” 

“Just listen! How they are carrying on! They 
are shouting ‘Long live the Emperor!’ ” 

“Patience,” murmured the monk, “it is still very 
early. ’ ’ 

“We will let them get drunk,” declared an old 
woman. “Afterwards we will go in, and not one 
must be left alive.” 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 


141 


“I ask that the druggist be quartered.’’ 

“We can make him into mince-meat if you wish. 
A French sympathizer is more hateful than a French¬ 
man. The Frenchman tramples on a foreign people; 
the French sympathizer sells and dishonors his own 
countrymen. The Frenchman is an assassin; the 
French sympathizer, a parricide!” 

II 

While the scene just described was taking place in 
the doorway of the drug store, Garcia de Paredes and 
his guests were carousing in a most joyful and dis¬ 
orderly manner. Twenty Frenchmen there were at 
the table, all of them captains and officials. 

Garcia de Paredes himself must have been about 
forty-five years of age. He was tall and dry and yel¬ 
lower than a mummy. His skin seemed to have been 
dead for years k Thanks to a clean and shining bald 
spot, somewhat phosphorescent, his forehead reached 
to the nape of his neck. His eyes, black and dull and 
buried in their bony sockets, were like those hidden 
mountain lakes which offer only obscurity and death 
to him who looks at them; lakes which reflect nothing, 
and which sometimes roar silently without themselves 
changing; lakes which engulf everything that falls 
on their surface, and return nothing; lakes which 
nobody has ever been able to sound, yet are not fed 
by any river. 

The supper was abundant, the wine good, and the 
conversation happy and animated. The Frenchmen 
laughed, blasphemed, sang, smoked, ate, and drank, 


142 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

all at the same time. This one told of the secret love 
affairs of Napoleon; that one, of the night of the 
second of May in Madrid; another, of the execution 
of Louis XVI. 

Garcia de Paredes drank, laughed, and chatted 
more than anyone. And so eloquent had he been in 
upholding the imperial cause, the French soldiers had 
embraced him, called him a hero, and sung hymns of 
praise to him. 

“Gentlemen ,* y the apothecary had said, “the war 
which we Spaniards make upon you is as foolish as it 
is lacking in motive. You sons of the Revolution 
would take Spain out of her traditional dejection, 
free her from prejudice, dissipate her religious dark¬ 
ness, improve her antiquated customs. You would 
teach her people those most useful and indisputable 
truths that there is no God, no other life; that peni¬ 
tence, abstinence, chastity, and the rest of the Cath¬ 
olic virtues are Quixotic madness; and that Napoleon 
is the true Messiah, the redeemer of the nations, the 
friend of mankind. Gentlemen, may the Emperor live 
as long as I wish him to live! ’* 

‘ ‘ Bravo! ’ ’ exclaimed the man of the Madrid riot. 
The druggist dropped his head with inexpressible 
anguish. But he quickly lifted it, his face as firm 
and serene as before. After drinking a glass of wine, 
he continued: 

“My barbarian grandfather, Garcia de Paredes, a 
Samson, a Hercules, killed two hundred Frenchmen 
in one day, in Italy, I believe. Now you see he was 
not so much of a French sympathizer as I. He took 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 


143 


sides against the Moors of Granada. The Catholic 
king made him a knight, and more than once he 
mounted the guard. Eh, eh! you did not think me 
of such a distinguished old family. Well, this fore¬ 
father of mine took Cosenza and Manfredonia; en¬ 
tered Carinola by means of assault; and fought like 
a lion in the battle of Pazia. In this last place he 
took as his prisoner a French king, whose sword has 
been in Madrid nearly three centuries. This sword 
was the one stolen from us three months ago by that 
inn-keeper’s son whom they call Murat.” 

Here the druggist paused again. A few of the 
Frenchmen made as if to answer him, but, rising and 
imposing silence upon them by his attitude, he 
clutched a glass convulsively, and in thundering tones 
exclaimed: 

“My toast is, gentlemen, that my grandfather, 
beast that he was, be cursed, and even now be con¬ 
demned to the infernal regions. And may the French¬ 
man of Francis I and Napoleon Bonaparte live 
forever ! 99 

“Vivant . . .!” responded the invaders, as all 
drained their glasses. 

At this moment a noise was heard in the street, or, 
more accurately speaking, outside the door of the 
apothecary shop. 

“Did you hear?” asked the Frenchmen. 

Garcia de Paredes smiled. 

“They may have come to kill me!” he exclaimed. 

“Who?” v 

“The townspeople of Padron.” 


144 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“Why?” 

“Because I am a French sympathizer. For many 
nights have they surrounded my house. But why 
should we care? Let us continue our fiesta.” 

“Yes, let us continue!” cried the guests. “We are 
here to defend you.” 

Then, striking bottle against bottle, and glass 
against glass: “Viva Napoleon! Death to Ferdi- 
nando! Death to Galicia!” they exclaimed with one 
voice. 

Garcia de Paredes waited until the toast was ended, 
and then said with a gloomy accent: 

“Celedonia!” 

The drug clerk showed his pale and changed face 
through a small doorway, without daring to enter. 

“Celedonia, bring paper and ink,” said the drug¬ 
gist, tranquilly. 

The clerk returned with writing materials. 

“Sit down,” continued his master. “Now write 
down the numbers which I am going to give you. 
Divide them into two columns. At the top of the 
column, to the right put “Debit”; at the top of the 
other, “Credit.” 

“Senor,” stammered the clerk, “in the doorway 
there is a disturbance. The people shout, ‘ Death to 
the apothecary! ’ and they want to enter. ’ ’ 

“Hush up, and let them alone. Write what I have 
told you.” 

The Frenchmen laughed with admiration upon see¬ 
ing the apothecary occupied in adjusting accounts 
when death and ruin surrounded him. 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 


145 


~ Celedonia lifted his head and poised his pen, 
awaiting the numbers he was to enter. 

“Let us see, gentlemen,” Garcia de Paredes then 
said, addressing himself to his guests. “It is fitting 
that we resume our fiesta with one more toast. Let 
us begin by order of location. You, Captain, tell me 
how many Spaniards you must have killed since you 
crossed the Pyrenees/’ 

‘ ‘ Bravo ! magnificent idea! ’ ’ exclaimed the French¬ 
men. 

“I . . .,” said the man addressed, climbing over 
his chair and twisting his mustache impertinently, 
“I . . . might have killed . . . personally . . . with 
my sword . . . put it some ten or twelve. ’ ’ 

“Eleven to the right,” shouted the druggist, ad¬ 
dressing the clerk. 

The clerk repeated, after writing, “Debit, eleven.” 

“Cojrect,” continued the host. “And you ... I 
am talking to you, Don Julio.” 

“I . . . six.” 

“And you, my commander?” 

“I . . . twenty.” 

“I . . . eight.” 

“I . . . fourteen.” 

“I . . . nine.” 

“I do not know; I have shot with my eyes closed.” 

Thus each responded as his turn came, the clerk 
listing the numbers to the right. 

“Let us see now, captain,” continued Garcia de 
Paredes, let us begin again with you. How many 
Spaniards do you hope to kill during the rest of the 


146 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


war, supposing that it lasts for . . . three 

years ?’ ’ 

“Eh,” replied the captain, “who can calculate 
that?” 

“Calculate, I beg of you.” 

“Put another eleven.” 

“Eleven to the left, dictated Garcia de Paredes. 
Celedonia repeated, “Credit, eleven.” 

“And you?” asked the druggist in the same order 
as before. 

“I . . . fifteen.” 

“I . . . twenty.” 

“I ... a hundred.” 

“ I ... a thousand.’ ’ 

“Put them all at ten, Celedonia,” the druggist 
murmured ironically. “Now add up the two columns 
separately.’ ’ 

The poor youth, who had written the numbers in a 
deathly sweat, was obliged to count on his fingers, 
such was his terror. 

“Debit . . . 285. Credit . . . 200.” 

“That is to say,” added Garcia de Paredes, “two 
hundred and eighty-five dead, and two hundred sen¬ 
tenced. Total, four hundred and eighty-five victims. ’ ’ 

And he pronounced the words in such deep and 
sepulchral tones that the Frenchmen looked at one 
another, alarmed. 

“We are heroes!” he exclaimed. “We have drunk 
seventy bottles or a hundred five and a half pounds of 
wine, which, divided among you, makes five pounds 
of liquid for each. We are heroes, I repeat!” 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 


147 


At this moment the panels of the drug store cracked, 
and the clerk stammered, “They are entering.” 

“What time is it?” the apothecary asked with the 
greatest calmness. 

“Eleven. But do you not hear that; they are 
entering ? ? * 

“Let them alone. It is time now.” 

“Time . . . for what?” murmured the guests, try¬ 
ing to rise. 

But they were so intoxicated that they could not 
move from their chairs. 

“Let them come in! Let them come in!” they 
exclaimed with thick voices, at the same time baring 
their sabres, and unsuccessfully attempting to rise. 
“Let that rabble enter. We will receive them.” 

At this moment, from the drug store below came 
the noise of breaking bottles and vessels. It was the 
townspeople, who, from the stairway, added to the 
crashing sounds the terrible cry of “Death to the 
Francomaniac.” 


Ill 

Garcia de Paredes, upon hearing such a noise in 
his house, sprang to his feet and leaned against the 
table in order not to fall back into his chair. He 
looked around him with inexpressible joy, the im¬ 
mortal smile of the victor upon his lips. And thus 
handsomely transfigured, with the double trembling 
of death and of enthusiasm, he spoke, uninterrupted 
and solemn, as if a knell for the dying: 

“Frenchmen, if any one of you or all of you to- 


148 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


gether, could have the opportunity to avenge the death 
of two hundred eighty-five compatriots, and to save 
the lives of two hundred more; if by sacrificing your 
own lives you might appease the indignant shadows of 
your ancestors, punish the murderers of two hundred 
and eighty-five heroes, and free two hundred com¬ 
panions from death, thus increasing your country’s 
army with two hundred champions of national inde¬ 
pendence; would you consider for a. moment your 
own miserable lives? Would you hesitate a moment 
to embrace, like Samson, the columns of the temple, 
and die killing the enemies of God?” 

“What is he saying?” the Frenchmen asked one 
another. 

‘ ‘ Senor, the assassins are in the anteroom! ’ ’ ex¬ 
claimed Celedonia. 

“Let them come in!” shouted Gracia de Paredes. 
11 Open the door for them. Let them enter. Let them 
see how the descendant of a soldier of Pazia can 
die.” 

The guests, frightened, stupid, chained to their 
chairs by an insupportable lethargy, believed that that 
death of which their host was speaking was about 
to enter the room in search of the mutinous victims. 
They made frantic efforts to lift their sabers from 
the table on which they lay, but their feeble fingers 
were unable to grasp the hilts. Their swords seemed 
to be glued to the table. 

Then more than fifty men and women, armed with 
sticks, knives, and pistols, pushed into the room, with 
flashing eyes and hideous cries. 


THE FRENCH SYMPATHIZER 


149 


‘ ‘ Death to all! ” screamed some of the women, dart¬ 
ing ahead of the others. 

‘ 1 Stop a moment! ’’ shouted Gracia de Paredes with 
such command of voice and face that the cry, com¬ 
bined with the calmness and stillness of twenty 
Frenchmen created a feeling of terror among the 
crowd, who had not expected so gloomy and tranquil 
a reception. 

“You have no reason for brandishing knives,” con¬ 
tinued the druggist with a weakening voice. “I have 
done more for the independence of the country than 
all of you combined. I have pretended to be a. 
Francomaniac, and, you see, the twenty officials, in¬ 
vaders, those twenty—do not touch them—are poi¬ 
soned. ’’ 

A shout of terror and admiration arose simultane¬ 
ously from the crowd of Spaniards. They took a 
step nearer to the guests, only to find the majority 
of them already dead, with heads fallen forward, arms 
extended on the table, and hands clutching the hilts 
of their swords. 

“Viva Garcia de Paredes!” the crowd exclaimed, 
surrounding the dying hero. 

“Celedonia,” whispered the pharmacist, “we are 
out of opium . . . send for opium ... to Corunna 
. ’ 7 and he fell on his knees. 

It was then only that the Spaniards knew the drug¬ 
gist, too, was poisoned. And they presented a picture 
that was as beautiful as it was awful. Several of 
the women seated themselves on the floor, and held 
by turns the dying patriot. They were the first to 


150 


iSHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


heap benedictions and caresses upon him, as they 
had been the first to ask for his death. The men had 
taken all the lights and put them on their knees, 
thus surrounding the group. There remained, finally, 
in the dark the twenty Frenchmen, some already dead, 
others silently dying. 

And with each sigh of death, or sound of falling 
body, a glorious light illumined the face of Garcia 
de Paredes, whose own spirit soon left the earth, 
blessed by a minister of God, and wept for by his 
compatriots. 

Pedro Antonio de Alarcon, 1833 - 1891 . 

Pedro Antonio de Alarcon, a native of Spain, a graduate of 
the University of Granada, a private student of law and the¬ 
ology, ranks among the literary artists of modern Spain. For 
more than forty years he led a varied life. A dramatist 
before he was twenty-one years of age, he was successively 
newspaper editor, newspaper correspondent to Africa, poli¬ 
tician, member of the Council of State, Minister to Norway and 
Sweden, Ambassador to the Porte, and, as a fitting climax to 
his literary career, Member of the Spanish Academy. 

His works, nineteen volumes in all, consist of essays; jour¬ 
nalistic articles, many of which were dramatic criticisms; news¬ 
paper sketches; poems both humorous and serious; novels; 
and three volumes of short-stories arid tales. Many of the 
novels and short-stories have been translated into both French 
and English. . 

Alarcon’s style, vivid, picturesque, incisive, often dramatic, 
shows concentrated feeling, forceful expression, and a mastery 
of elegant diction. Although his novels were very popular 
because of their national spirit, their sincerity, their humorous 
touches, it is perhaps through his short-stories that he will be 
best represented to future readers. 

Suggested Readings: The Fortune Teller, Long Live the 
Tope, The Flute, The Two Glories, Moors and Christians. 


THE POPE’S MULE 


Of all the clever sayings, proverbs, or adages with 
which our Provengal peasants adorn their language, 
I know of nothing so picturesque or so singular as 
this. Round about my mill for fifteen leagues, when 
one speaks of a spiteful, vindictive man, he says: “Do 
not trust that man. He is like the Pope’s mule who 
kept her kick for seven years.” 

I sought long and carefully to find out where the 
proverb originated, what was the papal mule and 
the kick kept in reserve for seven years. 

No one here has been able to inform me on the 
subject, not even Francet Mamai, my fifer, notwith¬ 
standing he has all the Provencal legends at the ends 
of his fingers. Like me, Francet thinks that it comes 
from some old tradition of the Avignon country. Yet 
he has never known it to be referred to in any other 
way except in this proverb. 

“You will find that nowhere but in the Library of 
the Grasshoppers,” 2 said the old fife player laugh¬ 
ing. 

The idea seemed good, and, as the Library of the 
Grasshoppers is at my door, I shut myself in there for 
a week. 

It is a wonderful library, admirably supplied, 
open to all poets day and night, and attended by lit¬ 
tle pages, 3 who constantly make music for you with 

1. Translated from the French by Nellie Octavia P16e. 

2. Open country. 

3. Locusts. 


151 


152 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

cymbals. I passed some delightful days there, and 
after a week’s research—on my back—I ended by 
finding out what I wanted—the history of my mule 
and the famous kick reserved for seven years. The 
story, though a little naive, is pleasing; and I am 
going to tell it to you as I read it yesterday morn¬ 
ing in a blue manuscript, which smelled sweet with 
dryed lavender, and which had large gossamer threads 
for book-marks. 

Those who never saw Avignon during the papal pe¬ 
riod, have seen nothing. For gayety, life, animation, 
a succession of festivals, there never was a city like 
it. From morning till night there were processions 
and pilgrimages; streets strewn with flowers and 
hung with rich tapestries; cardinals arriving by the 
Rhone, banners floating; galleys decorated with flags; 
papal soldiers singing in Latin in the public square; 
the rattles of the mendicant friars. Then, above the 
noises, confused and deadened, that issued from the 
houses around the papal palace like bees around their 
hives, one could hear the clack of the frames, the to 
and fro motion of the shuttles weaving the gold cloth 
for chasubles, the little hammers of the vase-carvers, 
the key-boards being properly adjusted in the houses 
of the lute-makers, the songs of the warpers, the clang 
of the bells overhead, and always, below, the hum of 
the tambourines by the side of the bridge. For with 
us, when the people are pleased there is always danc¬ 
ing : and, as at that time the streets were too narrow 
for the dance, fifers and tambourine players stationed 
themselves on the Avignon Bridge, in the cool air 


THE POPE’S MULE 


153 


of the Rhone, and there, day and night they danced 
and danced. Oh! happy days! happy city! The hal¬ 
berds which never cut down, the state prisons which 
were used only to cool the wines! No want, no wars! 
That is how the Popes of the country of Avignon 
governed their people; that is why their people so 
greatly regretted them. 

There was one especially, a good old Pope, called 
Boniface. 

Ah! the tears that were shed in the county of Avig¬ 
non when he died! He was a prince, so pleasing, so 
worthy to be loved; he smiled so pleasantly at you 
from his mule; and when you passed him, though you 
were a poor little digger of madder or a grand magis¬ 
trate of the city, he gave you his benediction with 
equal politeness. A genuine Pope of Yvetot, of the 
Provengal Yvetot, -with something refined and subtle 
in his laughter, and a. sprig of sweet marjoram in his 
cardinal’s cap. The only passion that the good father 
had ever been known to have was his vineyard, a lit¬ 
tle vineyard, which he had planted himself, about 
three leagues from Avignon, among the myrtles of 
Chateau Neuf. 

Every Sunday after Vespers, the worthy man went 
to pay court to it; and when he was there, sitting in 
the kind sunshine, his mule by his side, and the cardi¬ 
nals stretched out at the foot of the vines all about 
him, he would open a bottle of his home-made wine, 
that fine ruby-colored wine which ever since then has 
been called Chateau Neuf-des-Papes, and he would 
sip it slowly, at the same time regarding his vine- 


154 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

yard with a look of tenderness. Then, the bottle 
empty and the day gone, he would return happily to 
the city, followed by all his chapter; and, when he 
would pass the Avignon Bridge, amid the drums and 
the dances, his mule excited by the music, would take 
a little hopping pace, while he himself marked the 
step of the dance with his cap, an act that very much 
scandalized his cardinals but which made all the people 
shout: “Ah, the good prince! ah, the kind Pope!” 

Next to his vineyard at Chateau Neuf, the thing 
which the Pope loved best in the world was his mule. 
The good-natured man doted on that animal. Every 
evening before retiring he went to see if her stable 
was properly closed or if anything was wanting in 
her manger; and he never rose from the table without 
having had prepared, under his supervision, a large 
basin of wine a la Francaise, with a quantity of sugar 
and flavoring, which he carried to her himself, in 
spite of the remarks of the cardinals. It must be 
said, also, that the animal was worth the trouble. 

She was a fine looking mule, black and red dappled, 
sure footed, with glossy coat and large full back, her 
little head proudly poised and adorned with pompons, 
knots, bows of ribbons, and little silver bells; more¬ 
over, she possessed the gentleness of an angel, a mild 
eye, and two long ears always moving, qualities which 
gave her the appearance of a good-natured child. All 
Avignon respected her, and when she went into the 
street, no end of attention was paid to her; for every¬ 
one knew that this was the best way to be in favor at 


THE POPE’S MULE 


155 


court; and that, for all her innocent air, the Pope’s 
mule had led more than one to fortune, as proved by 
Tistet Vedene and his wonderful adventure. 

This Tistet Vedene was in truth a bold young rogue, 
whom his father Guy Vedene, the gold carver, had 
been obliged to send away from home because he would 
do nothing, and led astray the apprentices. For six 
months he had been seen idling about the streets of 
Avignon, but principally around the Pope’s palace; 
for this rascal long had had his eye on the Pope’s mule, 
and you will see what malicious thing he had in mind. 

One day when his Holiness was riding alone with 
his mule, under the eaves of the ramparts, there was 
my Tistet, who came up to him, and clasping his hands 
with an air of admiration said: “Ah, mon Diew! 
Holy Father, what a fine mule you have there! The 
Emperor of Germany has not her equal.” 

And he caressed her and talked to her as tenderly 
as to a maiden: 

‘ ‘ Come, my jewel, my treasure, my beautiful pearl. ’ ’ 

And the good Pope, quite affected, said to him¬ 
self : 

“What a good little lad! How gentle he is with 
my mule! ’ ’ 

And do you know what happened the following 
day? 

Tistet Vedene exchanged his old yellow coat for a 
beautiful lace vestment, a violet colored silk hood, 
shoes with buckles; and he entered the Pope’s college, 1 

1. A school for the musical education of choir-boys in a 
cathedral. 


156 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

where hitherto had been received only the sons of 
nobles and nephews of cardinals. Behold what 
intrigue is! But Tistet did not stop there. 

Once in the service of the Pope, the rogue continued 
the game which already had been so successful. In¬ 
solent with everybody, he had attention and kindness 
only for the mule; and one always met him in the 
court-yard of the palace with a handful of oats or a 
little bunch of clover, whose rosy clusters he gently 
shook, at the same time looking toward the balcony 
of St. Peter’s as if to say: “Ha! for whom is this?” 
Thus time passed on until at last, the good Pope, who 
felt himself growing old, arrived at the point where he 
left to him the care of watching the stable, and of 
carrying to the mule his basin of wine a la Francaise; 
a fact which did not make the cardinals laugh. 

Nor did it make the mule laugh. Now at the hour 
of her wine, she would always see coming to her 
stable five or six young scholars from the college, in 
their hoods and their laces, who quickly crept into 
the straw; then, after a moment, a fragrant odor of 
caramel and spices would fill the stable, and Tistet 
Vedene appeared carefully carrying the basin of wine 
a la Francaise. Then the martyrdom of the poor 
animal began. 

That fragrant wine which she loved so well, which 
kept her warm, which gave her wings, they had the 
cruelty to bring to her manger, and allow her to in¬ 
hale it; then when she had her nostrils filled with it, 
presto! the wine disappeared. The delicious rose- 
colored liquor went down the throats of those scape- 


THE POPE’S MULE 


157 


goats. Still if they had stopped after robbing her 
of her wine; but they were like devils, all those 
scholars, after they had drunk. One pulled her ears, 
another her tail; Quiquet climbed on her back, 
Beluguet tried his cap on her; and not one of those 
young rogues considered that, with one kick, that kind 
animal could have sent them all to the polar star, and 
even farther. But no! to be the mule of a Pope, the 
mule of benedictions, is not for nothing. The chil¬ 
dren tried in vain, she did not become angry; and it 
was only toward Tistet Vedene that she bore ill-will. 
For instance, when she felt him behind her she ached 
to kick him, and indeed she had very good cause. 
That scamp of a Tistet played her such wicked tricks! 
He had such fiendish thoughts after drinking! 

One day he took it into his head to make her go up 
with him into the belfry at the top of the palace. 
And this is not a bit of fiction which I am telling 
you—two hundred thousand people saw it. You can 
imagine the terror of this unhappy mule, when, after 
having gropingly turned round and round in a wind¬ 
ing staircase, and clambered I know not how many 
steps, she suddenly found herself on a platform daz¬ 
zling with light, and saw, a thousand feet below, a 
fantastic Avignon; the stalls of the market place no 
larger than hazel-nuts, the papal soldiers before their 
barracks like red ants, and down farther over a sil¬ 
ver thread, a microscopic bridge where people danced 
and danced. Ah, poor beast! What panic! At the 
cry she uttered, all the windows of the palace trem¬ 
bled. 


158 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

“What is the matter? What are they doing to 
her?” cried the good Pope, running out on the bal¬ 
cony. 

Tistet was already in the court-yard, pretending to 
weep and tear his hair. 

“Ah! Holy Father, there she is! There is your 
mule —mon Dieu! What will become of us! Your 
mule .has climbed up into the belfry!” 

“All alone?” 

“Yes, Holy Father, all alone. Hold! Look up 
there! Ho you not see the tips of her ears moving ? 
They are like two swallows.” 

“Mercy!” cried the poor Pope, raising his eyes. 
“Why she must have gone mad! She will kill her¬ 
self! Will you not come down, unhappy creature?” 

Pecaire! 1 She would like nothing better than to 
come down; but how ? The stairs could not be thought 
of; one can manage to go up those things,' but to 
come down would be chance enough to break one’s 
legs a thousand times. 

The poor mule was disconsolate; and, as she groped 
about the platform, her great eyes swimming with 
dizziness, she thought of Tistet Vedene. 

“Ah, bandit, if I get but of this, what a kick to¬ 
morrow morning!” 

That idea of a kick restored a little strength to her 
legs; but for that she would have been unable to hold 
out. At last they succeeded in getting her down, but 
it was no easy undertaking. She had to be lowered in 
a. litter, with ropes and pulleys. You can imagine 

1. An exclamation, usually of pity, used in Provence. 


THE POPE’S MULE 


159 


what humiliation it must have been for a Pope ’s mule 
to see herself suspended at that height, her feet 
sprawling in the air, like a June bug on the end of 
a thread. And all Avignon looking on! 

The unhappy animal did not sleep that night. It 
seemed to her that she was constantly turning around 
on that accursed platform, with the laughter of the 
city below. 

Then she thought of that base Tistet Vedene, and 
of the dainty kick. But, while preparations for the de¬ 
lightful reception were being made for Tistet Vedene 
at the stable, do you know what he was doing ? He was 
going singing down the Rhone on a papal galley, on 
the way to the Court of Naples, with a company of 
young nobles whom the city sent every year to Queen 
Joanna, to be trained in the art of diplomacy and 
good manners. Tistet was not a noble; but the Pope 
wished to recompense him for tbe carejhe had given 
to his mule, and especially for what he had done on 
the day of the rescue. 

It was the mule that was disappointed the next 
day. 

“Ah, the bandit! He suspected something,” she 
thought as she shook her little bells angrily. “But 
never mind, you villain! You will find it waiting for 
jmu upon your return—your kick, I’ll keep it for 
you,” 

And she did keep it for him. 

After the departure of Tistet, the mule regained 
her tranquil course of life and her usual habits. More¬ 
over, neither Quiquet nor Beluguet came to the stable. 


160 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

The delightful days of wine a la Francaise had re¬ 
turned, and with them good nature, long naps, and 
the little dancing step when she crossed the Avignon 
Bridge. However, since her adventure there was al¬ 
ways a little coldness shown toward her in the city. 
There were whisperings on the road, head shakings 
by the old people, and laughter from the children as 
they pointed to the belfry. 

The Pope himself did not have so much confidence 
in his friend, and when returning from his vineyard 
on Sundays he allowed himself to take a. little nap 
on her back, he always had this thought: 4 ‘ What if I 
should awake up there on the platform! ’ 7 The mule 
felt this and suffered in silence; only when someone 
spoke the name of Tistet Vedene near her, her long 
ears quivered, and, with a quick laugh, she sharpened 
her little iron shoes on the pavement. 

Thus seven years passed. Then, at the end of that 
time, Tistet Vedene returned from the Court of Naples. 
His time there was not yet ended; but he had heard 
that the chief mustard-bearer 1 to the Pope had died 
suddenly, and, as the position seemed desirable to 
him, he had come in great haste to apply for it. 

When that intriguer, Vedene, entered the hall of 
the palace; the Holy Father had trouble in recogniz¬ 
ing him, he had grown so tall and large. It should 
be said, too, that the good Pope had grown old and 
that he could not see well without glasses. 

Tistet was not frightened. 

1. Used here in its literal sense ; that is, a mediocre man who 
thinks himself of great importance. 


THE POPE’S MULE 161 

“What, Holy Father, do you not recognize me? 
It is I, Tistet Vedene!” 

“Vedene?” 

“Why, yes, you know me well—the one who used 
to carry the wine d la Francaise to your mule.” 

“Ah! yes, yes, I remember, a good little fellow, 
that Tistet Vedene, and now what is it that he wishes 
of us?” 

“ 0 a very little thing, Holy Father. I came to ask 
you—now I think of it, do you still have your mule ? 
Is she well? Ah! good! I came to ask you for the 
position of the chief mustard-bearer, who has died.” 

* 1 Chief mustard-bearer, you! But you are too 
young. How old are you, now ? 9 7 

‘ ‘ Twenty years and two months, illustrious Pontiff, 
just five years older than your mule. Ah, that fine 
animal! If you knew how much I loved that mule, 
and how I pined for her in Italy! Are you not going 
to let me see her?” 

“Certainly you shall see her, my child,” answered 
the good Pope, greatly moved. “And since you love 
her so much, that excellent beast, I do not wish you 
to live far from her. From this day I attach you 
to my person as chief mustard-bearer. My cardinals 
will complain loudly, but I am used to it. Meet us to¬ 
morrow, on our return from Vespers, and we will 
give you. the insignia of your office in the presence 
of the chapter, and then, I will take you to see the 
mule, and you will come to the vineyard with us two, 
ha! ha! Come now, away with you . 7 7 

If Tistet Vedene was pleased upon leaving the great 


162 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


hall, I need not tell yon with what impatience he 
awaited the ceremony of the next day. However, 
there was in the palace someone still happier and more 
impatient than he: it was the mnle. From the return 
of Vedene till the Yesper hour of the following day, 
that dreadful animal did not cease to fill herself with 
oats and to kick at the wall with her hind feet. She, 
too, was getting ready for the ceremony. 

And so next day when the vespers were over, Tistet 
Vedene made his appearance in the court-yard of the 
papal palace. All the chief clergy were there. Cardi¬ 
nals in red robes, advocates of the devil 1 in black vel¬ 
vet, convent abbes with their little mitres, the church 
wardens of Saint Agrico, the violet hoods of the col¬ 
lege and the lesser clergy, the papal soldiers in grand 
uniform, the three brotherhoods of penitents, the her¬ 
mits of Mount Yentoux with their shy appearance, and 
the little clerk who walks last carrying the bell, the 
Flagellant Brothers naked to the waist, the florid 
sacristans in judge-like robes—all, all, even those who 
pass the holy water, and those who light and extin¬ 
guish the candles. Nobody was missing. Ah! That 
was a beautiful ordination! the bells, the decorations, 
the sunshine, the music, and always the mad tambou¬ 
rines which led the dance farther down by the Avignon 
Bridge. 

When Vedene appeared in the midst of the assem¬ 
blage, his bearing and his fine figure caused a murmur 
of admiration. He was a magnificent Provencal, a. 

1. The doctor who pleads against the candidate for canonization 
and urges his exclusion. 


THE POPE’S MULE 


163 


blond, with hair in large curls, and a little downy 
beard which resembled the shavings of fine metal that 
fell from the graving-tool of his father, the goldsmith. 
On that particular day, in order to do honor to his 
nation, he had changed his Neapolitan clothes for a 
pink bordered jacket in the Provengal style, and had 
adorned his hood with a beautiful waving plume of 
the Camargue ibis. 

As soon as he entered, the chief mustard-bearer 
bowed with an air of gallantry, and directed his steps 
toward the high platform where the Pope awaited him, 
to give him the insignia of his office—the yellow 
wooden spoon and the saffron-colored coat. The mule 
was at the foot of the stairs harnessed and ready to 
start for the vineyard. When he passed near her, 
Tistet Vedene had a pleasant smile, and stopped in 
order to give her two or three little friendly pats on 
the back, watching from the corners of his eyes to 
note whether the Pope saw him. The situation was 
favorable. The mule took a spring. 

‘ There! Take that, bandit! Seven years have I 
kept it for you! ’ ’ 

And she gave him a kick so terrible that even at 
Pamplona one could see the smoke, an eddy of light 
smoke in which flutteered an ibis-plume, all that re¬ 
mained of the unfortunate Tistet Vedene. 

The kicks of mules are not ordinarily so dreadful, 
but this was a papal mule; and besides, think of it! 
She had saved it for seven years. There is no better 
example of an ecclesiastical grudge. 


164 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Alphonse Daudet, 1840-1897. 

The subject of this sketch was a native of Nimes and the 
son of a wealthy bourgeoisie family. Upon the loss of his 
father’s property, the family was reduced to poverty; the boy, 
to a depressing childhood. After a general education in the 
Lyons Lycee and a year of servility as usher in a school at 
Alais, the young man at the age of seventeen came to Paris to 
join his brother, a journalist, who was as penniless as he. He 
soon obtained positions on the Figaro and other magazines, to 
which he contributed his writings, largely poetry and plays. 
Through the influence of Princess Eugenie, who had become 
fascinated by one of his poems, he was made secretary to the 
Minister of State and thus given an excellent opportunity to 
travel through Corsica and Algeria, where he regained his 
health, fed the warm, gay, but reflective imagination he had 
inherited from the Provence, and gathered material for his 
novels and short-stories. After "five years of civil service, he 
devoted himself entirely to his literary work until his death. 

A dramatic author, with a light touch and a purity of style, 
he reproduced his characters, not as he conceived them, but as 
he had known them. Moreover, he possessed the humor and 
pathetic sensibility of Dickens, to whom, though not without 
protest on his part, he has been compared. In point of 
imagination, purity of expression, faithful descriptions, and 
reproductions of the Provencal scenery and customs, his stories 
are of abiding worth and place him among the masters in that 
form of literature. 

Daudet’s writings include dramas, long stories (studies of 
the imagination of the South), and several volumes of short 
stories. The last named include “ Letters to an Absent 
Friend”. All his works have been translated into English. 

Suggested Readings: The Last Class , The Elixir of Father 
Gaucher, The Stars, Sub-Prefect in the Fields, The Death of 
the Dauphin, M. Seguin } s Goat. 


THE SUBSTITUTE 1 


He was barely ten years old when he first was ar¬ 
rested for vagabondage. 

This is what he said to the judges: 

“My name is Jean-Frangois Leturc, and for six 
months I have lived with a man who sings between 
two lanterns in the Place de la Bastile, while scraping 
on the strings of a fiddle. I say the refrain with him, 
and then I cry: ‘ ‘ Get the collection of new songs, ten 
centimes and two sous.” He is always drunk and he 
beats me. That’s the reason the police found me the 
other night on the heap of rubbish. Before that I 
was with the man that sells haif brushes. My mother 
was a laundress; her name, Adele. At one time a 
gentleman had set her up in business on the ground 
floor, at Montmartre. She was a good worker and was 
very fond of me. She made money because she had 
for customers waiters at the hotel, and those people 
there need lots of linen. Sundays, she put me to bed 
early to go to the ball, but on week days she sent me 
to the Brothers’ school, where I learned to read. At 
last, this is what happened. The policeman whose 
beat was on our street always stopped before our 
window to talk to her. He was a fine looking fellow, 
with the Crimean Medal. They were married, and 
everything went wrong. He took a dislike to me and 
aroused my mother against me. Everybody cuffed 

1. Translated from the French by Nellie Octavia P16e. 

165 


166 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

me, and it was then that, in order to get away from 
the house, I spent whole days on the Place Clichy, 
where I got acquainted with the mountebanks. 

My stepfather lost his job; mother, her customers. 
She went to the wash house in order to support her 
husband. It was there she got consumption, because 
of the dampness and lye. She died at Lariboisiere. 
She was a good woman. Since that time, I have lived 
with the hairbrush seller and the fiddler. Are you 
going to put me in prison ? ’ ’ 

Thus he talked as frankly and cynically as a man. 
He was a ragged little rogue, as tall as a hoot, his face 
hidden under a strange shock of yellow hair. 

No one claimed him, so he was sent to the reform 
school. Not very intelligent, lazy, unusually awk¬ 
ward with his hands, he was able to learn there only 
a poor trade, that of reseating chairs. Yet he was 
obedient, naturally passive and quiet, and did not seem 
to have been greatly corrupted by that school of vice. 
But at length, arriving at the age of seventeen and 
again turned into the streets of Paris, unluckily for 
him, he met again his prison companions, all of them 
rascals practicing their wretched professions. Some 
were the breeders of dogs for hunting the sewer rats; 
some shined shoes on ball nights, in the Passage de 
1 ’Opera; some were wrestlers who, as beginners, volun¬ 
teered to be thrown by the Hercules of the shows; 
some fished from rafts in the river, in full sunlight. 
He tried all these, and a few months after his re¬ 
lease from the house of correction, he was again ar¬ 
rested for a petty theft, a pair of old shoes picked out 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


167 


of an open shop window. Result: A year at the prison 
of Sainte-Pelagie, where, as a sort of valet, he waited 
on the political prisoners. 

He lived, astonished, in this group of prisoners, all 
very young and carelessly dressed, who spoke in a 
loud voice and carried the head in such a solemn 
manner. They would get together in the cell of the 
oldest one among them, a man about thirty years of 
age, already imprisoned for a long time and now 
settled at Sainte-Pelagie. It was a large cell, deco¬ 
rated with colored caricatures, and from the windows 
of which one could see all Paris, its rafts, its towers, 
its domes, and, beyond, a distant line of hills, blue 
and shadowy against the sky. On the walls were 
some shelves loaded with books and all sorts of old 
apparatus from a fencing school: broken masques, 
rusty foils, breast plates, and gloves that were losing 
their stuffing. It was there that the politicians dined 
together, supplementing the regulation prison-fare 
with fruits, cheese, and litres of wine that Jean Fran¬ 
cois went out to buy in a canteen—riotous repasts 
interrupted by heated disputes or by singing in 
chorus, at the dessert, the Carmagnole and the Qa Ira} 
However, they assumed an air of dignity the days 
when they made room for a newcomer, at first gravely 
treating him asa (< Citizen,’’ but the next day calling 
him by his given name. They used large words there: 
Corporation, Solidarity, and phrases absolutely unin¬ 
telligible to Jean Francois; such for example as this, 
which at one time he heard uttered with an imperious 

1. A popular song at the time of the French Revolution. 


168 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

air by a hideous little hunchback who scribbled on 
paper all night: 

“It is said. The cabinet is composed thus: Ray¬ 
mond in the Department of Education, Martial in the 
Department of the Interior, and I in the Department 
of Foreign Affairs. ” 

When his time was up, he again wandered about 
Paris, watched at a distance by the police, after the 
manner of beetles which cruel children keep flying 
at the end of a string. He had become one of those 
fugitive, timid creatures which the law, with a sort 
of coquetry, arrests and releases turn and turn about, 
like those platonic fishermen who, in order not to 
empty their fish ponds, immediately throw back into 
the water the fish just drawn up in the net. Without 
suspecting that so much honor was being paid to his 
miserable self, he had a special file of papers in the 
mysterious records of the police headquarters; his 
name and surnames were written in a bold running 
hand on the gray paper cover, and the notes and 
reports so carefully classified gave him the following 
graded appellations: “one Leture by name,” “the 
accused Leture,” and last, “the convicted Leture.” 

He stayed out of prison two years, eating at cheap 
soup-houses and lime-kilns, taking part with his fel¬ 
lows in endless games of pitch-penny on the boule¬ 
vards, near the city gates. He wore a greasy cap at 
the back of his head, canvas slippers, and a short white 
blouse. When he had five sous he would have his 
hair curled. He danced at an inferior dancing-saloon 
in the Quartier de Montparnasse; bought for two 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


169 


sous the knave-of-hearts, or the ace-of-clubs used as 
return checks, to sell again for four sous at the door 
of Bobino ;* upon occasion, opened carriage doors; and 
led worn-out nags to the horse-market. Bad luck was 
always his. In drawing lots for military service he 
struck a good number. 2 Who knows whether the at¬ 
mosphere of honor in the regiment or military train¬ 
ing would not have saved him? Caught in the toils 
of the net together with a lot of young vagrants who 
used to rob the drunken sleeper of the streets, he ener¬ 
getically denied having taken part in the expedi¬ 
tions. Perhaps it was true. But his previous con¬ 
duct was taken in lieu of proofs, and he was sent 
up for three years to Poissy. There he had to make 
crude toys for children; had himself tatooed on the 
breast; learned the professional slang and the penal 
code. A new liberation, a new plunge into the Parisian 
pit of vice, but this time very short, for, at the end 
of six weeks at the most, he was again implicated 
in a night theft, aggravated -by violent burglary, a 
doubtful case in which he played an obscure part, 
half dupe and half receiver of the goods. Upon 
the whole, his complicity in the affair appeared evi¬ 
dent, and he was condemned to five years of hard 
labor. 

His chief sorrow in this adventure was to be sepa¬ 
rated from an old dog which he had picked up on a 
pile of rubbish and cured of the mange. This beast 
loved him. 

1. A theatre near the Luxemburg Gardens. 

2. The high numbers gave exemption. 


170 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

Toulon, the ball at his ankle, work in the harbor, 
blows from the cudgel, shoes without straw, 1 soup 
made of beans dating from Trafalgar, no money for 
tobacco, and the horrible sleep on camp-beds swarm¬ 
ing with convicts—that is what he knew for five tor¬ 
rid summers and five winters subjected to the mistral. 
He came out stunned, made a voyage under surveil- 
ance to Vernon, where he worked for some time on 
the river; then, the incorrigible vagabond that he was, 
he broke his ban 2 and returned again to Paris. 

He had his savings, fifty-six francs, and time to 
reflect. During his long absence his old horrible com¬ 
panions had been dispersed. He was well hidden and 
slept in a loft, at an old woman’s, to whom he repre¬ 
sented himself as a sailor, tired of the sea, having 
lost his papers in a recent shipwreck, and wanting to 
try his hand at some other trade. His bronzed face, 
his calloused hands, and some nautical expressions 
which he occasionally let fall, made his story seem 
probable. 

One day when he had taken the risk of sauntering 
in the streets, and when by chance his walk had taken 
him as far as Monmartre, his birthplace, a sudden 
memory caused him to stop before the door of the 
Brothers’ school, in which he had learned to read. As 
it was very warm, the door was open; and with a sin¬ 
gle look he was able to recognize the peaceful school¬ 
room. Nothing was changed, neither the light stream- 


1. It is usual to line wooden shoes with straw, to make a 
cushion for the feet. 

2. To return to a place where one has not permission to reside. 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


171 


ing in through the large windows, nor the crucifix 
over the desk, nor the regular rows of desks furnished 
with leaden ink stands, nor the tale of weight or meas¬ 
ures, nor the map on which pins were still sticking 
to point out the operations of some ancient war. Ab¬ 
sent mindedly and without reflection, Jean Francois 
read on the black board those words of the gospel, 
which a trained hand had written as an example of 
hand writing: 

“Joy shall be in heaven over one 
sinner that repenteth more than 
over ninety and nine just persons 
who need no repentance.” 

It was doubtless the recreation hour, for the Brother 
teacher had left his desk, and, sitting on the edge of 
a table, seemed to be telling a story to all the children 
who attentively surrounded him, with lifted eyes. 
What an innocent and merry countenance was that 
of the beardless young man in long black robe, white 
turned down collar, coarse, ugly shoes, and brown 
hair badly cut and cocked up at the back. All those 
pallid faces of the children of the common people 
which were looking at him, seemed less childlike than 
his, especially when, charmed with a candid, priestly 
pleasantry which he had made, he burst into a frank 
burst of laughter which showed his sound regular 
teeth, and which was so contagious that all the scholars 
laughed noisily in their turn. And it was simple 
and sweet, this group in the joyous sunshine which 
made their clear eyes and their light curls shine. 


172 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

Silently and for some time Jean Francois gazed 
at it, and for the first time, in this savage nature, all 
instinct and appetite, there awoke a mysterious and 
sweet emotion. His heart, that rough hardened heart, 
which the cudgel of the convict guard, or the heavy 
grip of the keeper’s whip falling on his shoulders 
could not affect, beat almost to oppression. Before 
this picture in which he saw again his own childhood, 
his eyes closed in sadness; and, restraining a violent 
gesture, a prey to the torture of regret, he moved 
away with great strides. 

Then the words written on the blackboard came 
back to him. 

“If it was not too late, after all?” he murmured. 
“If I could once more eat my coarse bread honestly, 
sleep without nightmare? Shrewd indeed must be 
the police-spy who could recognize me. My beard, 
which I shaved down there, has now grown strong 
and thick. One ought to be able to bury himself in 
this great ant-nest, and there is work enough to do. 
Whoever does not die at once in the hell of the 
prison, comes out agile and hardy; and I have learned 
to climb the ropes with a load on my back. Build¬ 
ing is going on everywhere and the masons have 
need of help. Three francs a day—I have never 
earned so much. That I may be forgotten is all 
I ask.” 

He followed his brave resolution; he was faithful 
to it; and three months later he was a different man. 
The master for whom he worked spoke of him as his 
best workman. After a long day on the ladder, in 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


173 


the full sun and dust, constantly bending and straight¬ 
ening his back to take the stones from the hands of 
the man below him, and to pass them to the man 
above him, he returned to get his meal at the cheap 
eating house, tired out, legs heavy, hands burning, 
and eyelashes stuck together by the plaster; but con¬ 
tented with himself and carrying his well-earned 
money knotted in his handkerchief. 

He went out now fearing nothing, for his white 
masque made him unrecognizable; moreover, he had 
observed that the mistrustful eye of the policeman 
rarely rests on the real worker. He was quiet and 
sober. He slept the healthy sleep of honest fatigue. 
He was free. 

At last, as a supreme reward, he gained a friend. 
It was a mason’s helper, like himself, named Savinien, 
a little red-cheeked peasant from Limousin. He had 
come to Paris carrying on his shoulder a stick with 
a bundle at the end. He shunned the wine dealer 
and went to mass every Sunday. Jean Francois loved 
him for his healthy body, for his frankness, for his 
honesty, for all those things which he himself had 
lost so long ago. It was a deep though restrained pas¬ 
sion, betraying itself by the care and kind attention 
as of a. father. Savinien, himself of a selfish and 
mobile nature, was quite satisfied to have found a 
companion who shared his horror of the public wine 
shop. The two friends lived together in a neatly fur¬ 
nished lodging-house, but, their resources being limited, 
they had to take into their room a third companion, an 
old man from Auvergne, sombre and rapacious, who, 


174 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


by economizing, found the means out of his meager 
wages to buy land in his own province. 

Jean Frangois and Savinien were scarcely ever 4 
separated. On days of rest they took long walks to¬ 
gether in the suburbs of Paris in order to dine under 
an arbor in one of those little country inns where 
there are many mushrooms in the sauces and simple 
rebuses on the bottoms of the plates. Jean Francois 
would then have his friend tell him all those things 
of which one born in the city is ignorant. He learned 
the names of trees, of flowers, and of plants, the sea¬ 
sons of the various harvests; he listened eagerly to the 
many details of a farmer’s labor, the autumn sow¬ 
ing, the winter work, the splendid harvest festivals, 
the flails beating the ground, the noise of the mills 
on the water’s edge, the tired horses being led to the 
watering trough, the morning hunts in the fog, and, 
above all, the long evenings around the vine-shoot fire, 
shortened by wonderful tales. He discovered in him¬ 
self sources of imagination hitherto unknown, finding 
a strange pleasure in the mere recital of these things 
so sweet, calm, monotonous. 

One fear troubled him, however, the fear that Savi¬ 
nien should come to know his past. Sometimes there 
escaped him an obscure slang phrase, an ignoble ges¬ 
ture, vestiges of his horrible former life ; and he would 
then feel the pain of a man whose old wounds open 
afresh, the more especially because he then thought 
he saw in Savinien the awakening of an unwholesome 
curiosity. When the young man, already tempted 
by the pleasures which Paris offers even to the poor, 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


175 


asked him about the mysteries of the great city, he 
pretended not to know and changed the conversation; 
but he had a vague anxiety for his friend’s 
future. 

This was not without foundation; and Savinien did 
not long remain the unsophisticated country fellow 
he had been on his arrival in Paris. If the coarse 
and noisy pleasures of the wine shop still were repug¬ 
nant to him, he was deeply agitated by other desires 
even more dangerous to the inexperience of his twenty 
years. When spring came he sought to be alone, and 
at first loitered before the illuminated entrances to 
the dancing-saloons, through which he could see girls, 
without hats, going in couples, and speaking in low 
voices, with their arms about each other’s waists. Then 
one evening when the lilacs were blooming, and when 
the appeal of the quadrille was unusually entrancing, 
he crossed the threshold. From that time Jean Fran¬ 
cois saw him change little by little in his manners 
and appearance. Savinien became more fastidious, 
more extravagant; soften he borrowed from his friend 
his meager savings, which he forgot to return. Jean 
Francois, though feeling himself forsaken, was at 
the same time both indulgent and jealous; yet he suf¬ 
fered in silence. He did not consider he had the right 
to reproach, but his deep friendship had cruel, insur¬ 
mountable forebodings. 

One evening, as he climbed the stairs of his lodging- 
house, absorbed in thought, he heard in the room he 
was about to enter, a dialogue of irritated voices, and 
among them he recognized that of the old man from 


176 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Auvergne, who lodged with him and Savinien. An 
old habit of suspicion made him halt on the landing, 
and he listened to learn the cause of the trouble. 

“Yes,” said the man from Auvergne with anger, 
“I can see that some one has broken into my trunk 
and stolen the three louis which I had hidden in a 
little box; and the person who did the deed can be 
none other than one of the two companions that sleep 
here, unless it should be Maria, the servant. This 
thing concerns you as mu£h as it does me, since you 
are the master of the house; and I will drag you be¬ 
fore the law courts if you do not at once let me search 
the valises of the two masons. My poor savings! They 
were in their place only yesterday; and I will tell 
you what they were, so that if we find them nobody 
can accuse me of having lied. Oh, I know them, my 
three beautiful gold pieces. I see them as plainly as 
I see you. One was a little more worn than the other, 
the gold a little greener, and it had the portrait of 
the great Emperor upon it; another had that of a 
large old fellow who had a queue and epaulets; and 
the third had a Phillip with whiskers, I had marked it 
with my teeth. Nobody can fool me, not me. Do you 
know that it was necessary for me to have only two 
others like those to buy my vineyard ? Come on, let us 
search the things of these comrades, or I will call the 
police.’ ’ 

“All right/’ answered the voice of the landlord, 
“we will search with Maria. So much the worse if 
you do not find anything and if the masons are angry. 
It is you that have forced me to do it. ’ ’ 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


177 


Jean Francois’ mind was filled with fear. He re¬ 
called the poverty, the little loans of Savinien, and 
the downcast air he had noticed for several days. 
Still he was unwilling to believe in a theft. He 
heard the hard breathing of the man from Auvergne 
in the ardor of 'his search, and he pressed his fists 
against his breast as if to quell the beatings of his 
heart. 

‘ ‘ There they are! ’ ’ suddenly and victoriously 
shrieked the miser. “There they are, my louis, my 
dear treasure! And in the Sunday waistcoat of that 
little hypocrite from Limousin. See, landlord! They 
are just as I told you. There is the Napoleon, and 
the man with the queue, and the Phillip I had bitten. 
See the dent. Ah, the little rascal, with his sancti¬ 
monious air! I should more likely have suspected 
the other one. Oh, the scoundrel! He shall go to 
prison! ’ ’ 

At this moment Jean Francois heard the well known 
footsteps of Savinien, who was slowly climbing the 
stairs. 

'‘He will betray himself,” he thought. “Three 
flights. I have the time.” 

And, pushing the door, he entered the chamber, pale 
as death, where he saw the landlord and the stupefied 
servant in a corner, and the man from Auvergne on 
his knees among the scattered clothing, affectionately 
kissing his gold pieces. 

“That’s enough,” said he in a hollow tone. “It 
is I who have taken the money and put it into my 
comrade’s trunk. But that is too disgusting. I am a 


178 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


thief and not a Judas. Go get the police; I will not 
run away. Only, I must say a word in private to 
Savinien, who is here.” 

The little fellow from Limousin had in fact just 
arrived, and, seeing his crime discovered and believing 
himself lost, he paused there, his eyes fixed, his arms 
hanging. 

Jean Francois fell on his neck with emotion, as if 
to embrace him; he pressed his lips to Savinien’s ear, 
and said in a low beseeching voice: 

“Keep still!” 

Then turning to the others: 

“Leave me alone with him. I shall not go away, I 
tell you. Lock us in if you want to, but leave us 
alone. ’* 

And, with a commanding gesture, he showed them 
the door. They went out. 

Savinien, broken with anguish, had seated himself 
on a bed and had lowered his eyes without under¬ 
standing. 

“Listen,” said Jean Francois, taking his hand. “I 
understand you have stolen the three gold pieces to 
buy some trifle for a girl. That would have cost you 
six months in prison. But one does not go from that 
place except to return; and you would have become a 
pillar of the police tribunals and the assize courts. 
I know all about them. I have been seven years in the 
reform school, one at Sainte-Pelagie, three at Poissy, 
and five at Toulon. Now do not have any fear. All is 
arranged. I have taken everything on my own 
shoulders. ’ ’ 


THE SUBSTITUTE 


179 


1 ‘ Poor wretch! ’ ’ cried Savinien; but hope already 
was returning to his cowardly breast. 

“When the elder brother is serving under the flag, 
the younger does not go. I am your substitute, that is 
all. You love me a little, do you not? I am paid. 
This is no child’s play. You cannot refuse. I should 
have been put into prison one of these days,’ for I 
have broken my ban, and then you see that life there 
will be less hard for me than for you; I am well used 
to it, and I shall not complain if I do not render this 
service for nothing and if you will swear to me never 
to do it again. Savinien, I have loved you deeply, and 
your friendship has made me very happy, for it is 
thanks to our friendship that I have stayed honest 
and clean, and what perhaps I should always have 
been, if, like you, I had had a father to put a tool in 
my hands, and a mother to teach me my prayers. My 
only regret has been that I was useless to you and 
that I was deceiving you about myself. Today I have 
taken off my mask in saving you. It is all right. Come, 
now, good-by! Do not weep; and embrace me, for al¬ 
ready I hear the big boots 1 on the stairs. They are 
returning with the police, and it is not best for us to 
have the appearance of knowing each other too well 
before these fellows.” 

He hastily strained Savinien to his breast; then he 
pushed him away as the door opened wide. 

It was the landlord and the man from Auvergne 
bringing the police. Jean Francois sprang to the 


1. The policemen. 


180 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


landlord, held out his hands for the handcuffs, and 
said laughingly: 

“Let us be off, worthless set !’ 7 
Today he is at Cayenne, condemned for life as an 
habitual criminal. 

Franqois Copp£e, 1842 - 1908 . 

The simple life of Francois Coppee is briefly told. The son 
of a poor clerk in the French War Offices, he was educated at 
the Lycee St. Louis, appointed as clerk in the French War 
Department, made assistant-librarian in the Senate and libra¬ 
rian to the Comedie Fran^aise, elected at the age of forty-two 
to the French Academy, and, four years later, to an office in 
the Legion of Honor. During a large part of his life he was 
a member of the very select Parnasse, which included much of 
the “ brilliant literary talent of the Third Empire. ’* His 
later years were slightly disturbed by his interest in politics 
and the celebrated Dreyfus case. Nevertheless, he died as he 
had lived—a simple Parisian. 

In Coppee are found the poet, dramatist, and short-story 
writer, though it is as poet that he is best known. In all three 
methods of expression he reveals a perfect understanding of 
the poor and humble. Indeed, he is best remembered for his 
stories of the working classes, and for his sympathetic and 
masterly treatment of those lower middle-class men and women 
who undergo the trials and self-denials which he himself had 
experienced, and in whose simple lives he saw pathos, beauty, 
poetry. Thus he is more than a mere writer of the people; 
he is a poet of the people; for “poetry shines through and 
illuminates all of his writings.’’ 

Suggested Readings: The Foster Sister, The Sabots of 
Little Wolff, The Captain's Vices, The Lost Child, Sunset, The 
Two Clowns, My Friend Mentrier, An Accident, A Dramatic 
Funeral. 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


It was late in November, 1456. The snow fell over 
Paris with rigorous, relentless persistence; sometimes 
the wind made a sally and scattered it in flying 
vortices; sometimes there was a lull, and flake after 
flake descended out of the black night air, silent, cir¬ 
cuitous, interminable. To poor people, looking up 
under moist eyebrows, it seemed a wonder where it all 
came from. Master Francis Villon had propounded 
an alternative that afternoon, at a tavern window: 
was it only Pagan Jupiter plucking geese upon Olym¬ 
pus ? or were the holy angels moulting ? He was only 
a poor Master of Arts, he went on; and, as the ques¬ 
tion somewhat touched upon divinity, he durst not 
venture to conclude. A silly old priest from Mon- 
targis, who was among the company, treated the young 
rascal to a bottle of wine in honour of the jest and 
the grimaces with which it was accompanied, and 
swore on his own white beard that he had been just 
such another irreverent dog when he was Villon’s 
age. 

The air was raw and pointed, but not far below 
freezing; and the flakes were large, damp, and adhe¬ 
sive. The whole city was sheeted up. An army might 
have marched from end to end and not a footfall given 
the alarm. If there were any belated birds in heaven, 
they saw the island like a large white patch, and 
the bridges like slim white spars, on the black ground 
of the river. High up overhead the snow settled 
181 


182 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


among the tracery of the cathedral towers. Many 
a niche was drifted full; many a statue wore a long 
white bonnet on its grotesque or sainted head. The 
gargoyles had been transformed into great false noses, 
drooping towards the point. The crockets were like 
upright pillows swollen on one side. In the intervals 
of the wind, there was a dull sound of dripping about 
the precincts of the church. 

The cemetery of St. John had taken its own share 
of the snow. All the graves were decently covered; 
tall white housetops stood around in grave array; 
benightcapped worthy burghers were long ago in bed, 
benightcapped like their domiciles; there was no light 
in all the neighborhood but a little peep from a lamp 
that hung swinging in the church choir, and tossed the 
shadows to and fro in time to its oscillations. The 
clock was hard on ten when the patrol went by with 
halberds and a lantern, beating their hands; and they 
saw nothing suspicious about the cemetery of St. John. 

Yet there was a small house, backed up against the 
cemetery wall, which was still awake, and awake to 
evil purpose, in that snoring district. There was not 
much to betray it from without; only a stream of 
warm vapor from the chimney top, a patch where the 
snow melted on the roof, and a few half-obliterated 
footprints at the door. But within, behind the shut¬ 
tered windows, Master Francis Villon, the poet, and 
some of the thievish crew with whom he consorted, 
were keeping the night alive and passing round the 
bottle. 

A great pile of living embers diffused a strong and 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


183 


ruddy glow from the arched chimney. Before this 
straddled Dom Nicolas, the Picardy monk, with his 
skirts picked up and his fat legs bared to the comfort¬ 
able warmth. His dilated shadow cut the room in 
half; and the firelight only escaped on either side of 
his broad person, and in a little pool between his out¬ 
spread feet. His face had the beery, bruised appear¬ 
ance of the continual drinker’s; it was covered with 
a network of congested veins, purple in ordinary cir¬ 
cumstances, but now pale violet, for even with his 
back to the fire the cold pinched him on the other 
side. His cowl had half fallen back, and made a 
strange excrescence on either side of his bull neck. 
So he straddled, grumbling, and cut the room in half 
with the shadow of his portly frame. 

On the right, Villon and Guy Tabary were huddled 
together over a scrap of parchment; Villon making a 
ballad which he was to call the Ballad of Boast Fish , 
and Tabary spluttering admiration at his shoulder. 
The poet was a rag of a man, dark, little, and lean, 
with hollow cheeks and thin black locks. He carried 
his four-and-twenty years with feverish animation. 
Greed had made folds about his eyes; evil smiles had 
puckered his mouth. The wolf and pig struggled 
together in his face. It was an eloquent, sharp, ugly, 
earthly countenance. His hands were small and pre¬ 
hensile, with fingers knotted like a cord; and they 
were continually flickering in front of him in violent 
and expressive pantomime. As for Tabary, a broad, 
complacent, admiring imbecility breathed from his 
squash nose and slobbering lips: he had become a 


184 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


thief, just as he might have become the most decent of 
burgesses, by the imperious chance that rules the lives 
of human geese and human donkeys. 

At the monk’s other hand, Montigny and Thevenin 
Pensete played a. game of chance. About the first 
there clung some flavor of good birth and training, as 
about a fallen angel; something long, lithe, and court¬ 
ly in the person; something aquiline and darkling 
in the face. Thevenin, poor soul, was in great feather: 
he had done a good stroke of knavery that afternoon 
in the Faubourg St. Jacques, and all night he had 
been gaining from Montigny. A flat smile illuminated 
his face; his bald head shone rosily in a garland of 
red curls; his little protuberant stomach shook with 
silent chucklings as he" swept in his gains. 

“Doubles or quits?” said Thevenin. 

Montigny nodded grimly. 

“Some may prefer to dine in state,” wrote Villon, 
“On bread and cheese on silver plate. Or—or—help 
me out, Guido! ” 

Tabary giggled. 

“Or parsley on a golden dish,” scribbled the poet. 

The wind was freshening without; it drove the snow 
before it, and sometimes raised its voice in a victorious 
whoop, and made sepulchral grumblings in the chim¬ 
ney. The cold was growing sharper as the night went 
on. Villon, protruding his lips, imitated the gust with 
something between a whistle and a groan. It was an 
eerie, uncomfortable talent of the poet’s, much de¬ 
tested by the Picardy monk. 

“Can’t you hear it rattle in the gibbet?” said 



A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


185 


Villon. “They are all dancing the devil’s jig on 
nothing, up there. You may dance, my gallants, 
you’ll be none the warmer! Whew! what a gust! 
Down went somebody just now! A medlar the fewer 
on the three-legged medlar-tree!—I say, Dom Nicolas, 
it’ll be cold tonight on the St. Denis Road!” he 
asked. 

Dom Nicolas winked both his big eyes, and seemed 
to choke upon his Adam’s apple. Montfaucon, the 
great grisly Paris gibbet, stood hard by the St. Denis 
Road, and the pleasantry touched him on the raw. As 
for Tabary, he laughed immoderately over the med¬ 
lars ; he had never heard anything more light-hearted; 
and he held his sides and crowed. Villon fetched him 
a fillip on the nose, which turned his mirth into an 
attack of coughing. 

“Oh, stop that row,” said Villon, “and think of 
rhymes to ‘ fish. ’ ’ ’ 

“Doubles or quits,” said Montigny doggedly. 

“With all my heart,” quoth Thevenin. 

‘ ‘ Is there any more in that bottle ? ’ ’ asked the 
monk. 

“Open another,” said Villon. “How do you ever 
hope to fill that big hogshead, your body, with little 
things like bottles ? And how do you expect to get to 
heaven? How many angels, do you fancy, can be 
spared to carry up a single monk from Picardy? Or 
do you think yourself another Elias—and they’ll 
send the coach for you?” 

“Hominibus impossible,” replied the monk as he 
filled his glass. 


186 


SHORT STOEIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Tabary was in ecstasies. 

Villon filliped his nose again. 

“Laugh at my jokes, if you like,” he said. 

“It was very good,” objected Tabary. 

Villon made a face at him. “Think of rhymes to 
'fish/ ” he said. “What have you to do with Latin? 
You’ll wish you knew none of it at the great assizes, 
when the devil calls for Guido Tabary, clericus—the 
devil with the hump-back and red-hot finger-nails. 
Talking of the devil,” he added in a whisper, “look 
at Montigny!” 

All three peered covertly at the gamester. He did 
not seem to be enjoying his luck. His mouth was a 
little to a side; one nostril nearly shut, and the other 
much inflated. The black dog was on his back, as 
people say, in terrifying nursery metaphor; and he 
breathed hard under the gruesome burden. 

“He looks as if he could knife him,” whispered 
Tabary, with round eyes. 

The monk shuddered, and turned his face and 
spread his open hands to the red embers. It was the 
cold that thus affected Dom Nicolas, and not any 
excess of moral sensibility. 

“Come now,” said Villon—“about this ballad. 
How does it run so far?” And beating time with his 
hand, he read it aloud to Tabary. 

They were interrupted at the fourth rhyme by a 
brief and fatal movement among the gamesters. The 
round was completed, and Thevenin was just opening 
his mouth to claim another victory, when Montigny 
leaped up, swift as an adder, and stabbed him to the 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


187 


heart. The blow took effect before he had time to 
utter a cry, before he had time to move. A tremor or 
two convulsed his frame; his hands opened and shut, 
his heels rattled on the floor; then his head rolled 
backward over one shoulder with the eyes wide open, 
and Thevenin Pensete’s spirit had returned to Him 
who made it. 

Everyone sprang to his feet; but the business was 
over in two twos. The four living fellows looked at 
each other in rather a ghastly fashion; the dead man 
contemplating a corner of the roof with a singular and 
ugly leer. 

“My God!” said Tabary; and he began to pray 
in Latin. 

Villon broke out into hysterical laughter. He came 
a step forward and ducked a ridiculous bow at Theve¬ 
nin, and laughed still louder. Then he sat down sud¬ 
denly, all of a heap, upon a stool, and continued 
laughing bitterly as though he would shake himself 
to pieces. 

Montigny recovered his composure first. 

“Let’s see what he has about him,” he remarked, 
and he picked the dead man’s pockets with a prac¬ 
tised hand, and divided the money into four equal 
portions on the table. “There’s for you,” he said. 

The monk received his share with a deep sigh, and 
a single stealthy glance at the dead Thevenin, who 
was beginning to sink into himself and topple side¬ 
ways off the chair. 

“We’re all in for it,” cried Villon, swallowing his 
mirth. “It’s a hanging job for every man jack of us 


188 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


that’s here—not to speak of those who aren’t.” He 
made a shocking gesture in the air with his raised 
right hand, and put out his tongue and threw his head 
on one side, so as to counterfeit the appearance of one 
who has been hanged. Then he pocketed his share of 
the spoil, and executed a shuffle with his feet as if to 
restore the circulation. 

Tabary was the last to help himself; he made a dash 
at the money, and retired to the other end of the 
apartment. 

Montigny stuck Thevenin upright in the chair, and 
drew out the dagger, which was followed by a jet of 
blood. 

“You fellows had better be moving,” he said, as he 
wiped the blade on his victim’s doublet. 

“I think we had,” returned Villon, with a gulp. 
“Damn his fat head!” he broke out. “It sticks in 
my throat like a phlegm. What right has a man to have 
red hair when he is dead ? ’ ’ And he fell all of a heap 
again upon the stool, and fairly covered his face with 
his hands. 

Montigny and Dom Nicolas laughed aloud, even 
Tabary feebly chiming in. 

‘ ‘ Cry baby, ’ ’ said the monk. 

“I always said he was a woman,” added Montigny, 
with a sneer. “Sit up, can’t you?” he went on, giv¬ 
ing another shake to the murdered body.' ‘ ‘ Tread out 
that fire, Nick!” 

But Nick was better employed; he was quietly 
taking Villon’s purse, as the poet sat, limp and trem¬ 
bling, on the stool where he had been making a ballad 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


189 


not three minutes before. Montigny and Tabary 
dumbly demanded a share of the booty, which the 
monk silently promised as he passed the little bag into 
the bosom of his gown. In many ways an artistic 
nature unfits a man for practical existence. 

No sooner had the theft been accomplished than 
Villon shook himself, jumped to his feet, and began 
helping to scatter and extinguish the embers. Mean¬ 
while Montigny opened the door and cautiously peered 
into the street. The coast was clear; there was no 
meddlesome patrol in sight. Still it was judged wiser 
to slip out severally; and, as Villon was himself in a 
hurry to escape from the neighborhood of the dead 
Thevenin, and the rest were in a still greater hurry to 
get rid of him before he should discover the loss of 
his money, he was the first by general consent to issue 
forth into the street. 

The wind had triumphed and swept all the clouds 
from heaven. Only a few vapors, as thin as moon¬ 
light, flitted rapidly across the stars. It was bitter 
cold; and, by a common optical effect, things seemed 
almost more definite than in the broadest daylight. 
The sleeping city was absolutely still; a company of 
white hoods, a field full of little Alps, below the twink¬ 
ling stars. Villon cursed his fortune. Would it were 
still snowing! Now, wherever he went, he left an 
indelible trail behind him on the glittering streets; 
wherever he went he was still tethered to the house by 
the cemetery of St. John; wherever he went he must 
weave, with his own plodding feet, the rope that bound 
him to the crime and would bind him to the gallows. 


190 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


The leer of the dead man came back to him with a 
new significance. He snapped his fingers as if to pluck 
up his own spirits, and choosing a street at random, 
stepped boldly forward in the snow. 

Two things preoccupied him as he went: the aspect 
of the gallows at Montfaucon in this bright, windy 
phase of the night’s existence, for one; and for an¬ 
other, the look of the dead man with his bald head 
and garland of red curls. Both struck cold upon his 
heart, and he kept quickening his pace as if he could 
escape from unpleasant thoughts by mere fleetness of 
foot. Sometimes he looked back over his shoulder 
with a sudden nervous jerk; but he was the only 
moving thing in the white streets, except when the 
wind swooped round a corner and threw up the snow, 
which was beginning to freeze, in spouts of glittering 
dust. 

Suddenly he saw, a long way before him, a black 
clump and a couple of lanterns. The clump was in 
motion, and the lanterns swung as though carried by 
men walking. It was a patrol. And though it was 
merely crossing his line of march, he judged it wiser 
to get out of eyeshot as speedily as he could. He was 
not in the humor to be challenged, and he was con¬ 
scious of making a very conspicuous mark upon the 
snow. Just on his left hand there stood a great hotel, 
with some turrets and a large porch before the door; 
it was half-ruinous, he remembered, and had long 
stood empty; and so he made three steps of it, and 
jumped into the shelter of the porch. It was pretty 
dark inside, after the glimmer of the snowy streets, 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


191 


and he was groping forward with outspread hands, 
when he stumbled over some substance which offered 
an indescribable mixture of resistances, hard and soft, 
firm and loose. His heart gave a leap, and he sprang 
two steps back and stared dreadfully at the obstacle. 
Then he gave a little laugh of relief. It was only a 
woman, and she dead. He knelt beside her to make 
sure upon this latter point. She was freezing cold, 
and rigid like a stick. A little ragged finery fluttered 
in the wind about her hair, and her cheeks had been 
heavily rouged that same afternoon. Her pockets 
were quite empty; but in her stocking, underneath 
the garter, Villon found two of the small coins that 
went by the name of whites. It was little enough; but 
it was always something; and the poet was moved with 
a deep sense of pathos that she should have died 
before she had spent her money. That seemed to him 
a dark and pitiable mystery; and he looked from the 
coins in his hand to the dead woman, and back again 
to the coins, shaking his head over the riddle of man’s 
life. Henry V. of England, dying at Vincennes just 
after he had conquered France, and this poor jade cut 
off by a cold draught in a great man’s doorway, before 
she had time to spend her couple of whites—it seemed 
a cruel way to carry on the world. Two whites would 
have taken such a little while to squander; and yet it 
would have been one more good taste in the mouth, 
one more smack of the lips, before the devil got the 
soul, and the body was left to birds and vermin. He 
would like to use all his tallow before the light was 
blown out and the lantern broken. 


192 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


While these thoughts were passing through his mind, 
he was feeling, half mechanically, for his purse. Sud¬ 
denly his heart stopped beating; a feeling of cold 
scales passed up the back of his legs, and a cold blow 
seemed to fall upon his scalp. He stood petrified for 
a moment; then he felt again with one feverish move¬ 
ment; and then his loss burst upon him, and he was 
covered at once with perspiration. To spendthrifts 
money is so living and actual—it is such a thin veil 
between them and their pleasures! There is only one 
limit to their fortune—that of time; and a spend¬ 
thrift with only a few crowns is the Emperor of Rome 
until they are spent. For such a person to lose his 
money is to suffer the most shocking reverse, and fall 
from heaven to hell, from all to nothing, in a breath. 
And all the more if he has put his head in the halter 
for it; if he may be hanged to-morrow for that same 
purse, so dearly earned, so foolishly departed! Villon 
stood and cursed; he threw the two whites into the 
street; he shook his fist at heaven; he stamped, and 
was not horrified to find himself trampling the poor 
corpse. Then he began rapidly to retrace his steps 
towards the house beside the cemetery. He had for¬ 
gotten all fear of the patrol, which was long gone by at 
any rate, and had no idea but that of his lost purse. 
It was in vain that he looked right and left upon the 
snow: nothing was to be seen. He had not dropped 
it in the streets. Had it fallen in the house? He 
would have liked dearly to go in and see; but the idea 
of the grisly occupant unmanned him. And he saw 
besides, as he drew near, that their efforts to put out 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


193 


the fire had been unsuccessful; on the contrary, it had 
broken into a blaze, and a changeful light played in 
the chinks of door and window, and revived his terror 
for the authorities and Paris gibbet. 

He returned to the hotel with the porch, and groped 
about upon the snow for the money he had thrown 
away in his childish passion. But he could only find 
one white; the other had probably struck sideways 
and sunk deeply in. With a single white in his pocket, 
all his projects for a rousing night in some wild tavern 
vanished utterly away. And it was not only pleasure 
that fled laughing from his grasp; positive discomfort, 
positive pain, attacked him as he stood ruefully before 
the porch. His perspiration had dried upon him; and, 
though the wind had now fallen, a binding frost was 
setting in stronger with every hour, and he felt be¬ 
numbed and sick at heart. What was to be done? 
Late as was the hour, improbable as was success, he 
would try the house of his adopted father, the chaplain 
of St. Benoit. 

He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. 
There was no answer. He knocked again and again, 
taking heart with every stroke; and at last steps were 
heard approaching from within. A barred wicket fell 
open in the iron-studded door, and emitted a gush of 
yellow light. 

“Hold up your face to the wicket,” said the chap¬ 
lain from within. 

“It’s only me,” whimpered Villon. 

‘ ‘ Oh, it’s only you, is it ? ” returned the chaplain; 
and he cursed him with foul unpriestly oaths for dis- 


194 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


turbing him at such an hour, and bade him be off to 
hell, where he came from. 

“My hands are blue to the wrist,” pleaded Villon; 

‘ ‘ my feet are dead and full of twinges; my nose aches 
with the sharp air; the cold lies at my heart. I may 
be dead before morning. Only this once, father, and 
before God I will never ask again ! 7 7 

“You should have come earlier,” said the ecclesi¬ 
astic coolly. “Young men require a lesson now and 
then.” He shut the wicket and retired deliberately 
into the interior of the house. 

Villon was beside himself; he beat upon the door 
with his hands and feet, and shouted hoarsely after 
the chaplain. 

“Wormy old fox!” he cried. “If I had my hand 
under your twist, I would send you flying headlong 
into the bottomless pit. ’ ’ 

A door shut in the interior, faintly audible to the 
poet down long passages. He passed his hand over 
his mouth with an oath. And then the humor of the 
ituation struck him, and he laughed and looked lightly 
up to heaven, where the stars seemed to be winking 
over his discomfiture. 

What was to be done ? It looked very like a night 
in the frosty streets. The idea of the dead woman 
popped into his imagination, and gave him a hearty 
fright; what had happened to her in the early night 
might very well happen to him before morning. And 
he so young! and with such immense possibilities of 
disorderly amusement before him! He felt quite 
pathetic over the notion of his own fate, as if it had 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


195 


been some one else’s, and made a little imaginative 
vignette of the scene in the morning when they should 
find his body. 

He passed all his chances under review, turning the 
white beneath his thumb and forefinger. Unfortu¬ 
nately he was on bad terms with some old friends who 
would once have taken pity on him in such a plight. 
He had lampooned them in verses, he had beaten and 
cheated them; and yet now, when he was in so close a 
pinch, he thought there was at least one who might 
perhaps relent. It was a chance. It was worth trying 
at least, and he would go and see. 

On the way, two little accidents happened to him 
which colored his musings in a very different manner. 
For, first, he fell in with the track of a patrol, and 
walked in it for some hundred yards, although it lay 
out of his direction. And this spirited him up; at 
least he had confused his trail; for he was still pos¬ 
sessed with the idea of people tracking him all about 
Paris over the snow, and collaring him next morning 
before he was awake. The other matter affected him 
very differently. He passed a street corner, where, 
not so long before, a woman and her child had been 
devoured by wolves. This was just the kind of 
weather, he reflected, when wolves might take it into 
their heads to enter Paris again; and a lone man in 
these deserted streets would run the chance of some¬ 
thing worse than a mere scare. He stopped and 
looked upon the place with an unpleasant interest—it 
was a center where several lanes intersected each 
other; and he looked down them all, one after another, 


196 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


and held his breath to listen, lest he should detect 
some galloping black things on the snow or hear the 
sound of howling between him and the river. He 
remembered his mother telling him the story and 
pointing out the spot, while he was yet a child. His 
mother! If he only knew where she lived, he might 
make sure at least of shelter. He determined he 
would inquire upon the morrow; nay, he would go and 
see her too, poor old girl! So thinking, he arrived at 
his destination—his last hope for the night. 

The house was quite dark, like its neighbors; and 
yet, after a few taps, he heard a movement overhead, a 
door opening, and a cautious voice asking who was 
there. The poet named himself in a loud whisper, 
and waited, not without some trepidation, the result. 
Nor had he long to wait. A window was, suddenly 
opened, and a pailful of slops splashed down upon the 
doorstep. Villon had not been unprepared for some¬ 
thing of the sort, and had put himself as much in shel¬ 
ter as the nature of the porch admitted; but for all 
that, he was deplorably drenched below the waist. His 
hose began to freeze almost at once. Death from cold 
and exposure stared him in the face; he remembered 
he was of phthisical tendency, and began coughing 
tentatively. But the gravity of the danger steadied 
his nerves. He stopped a few hundred yards from 
the door where he had been so rudely used, and re¬ 
flected with his finger to his nose. He could only see 
one way of getting a lodging, and that was to take it. 
He had noticed a house not far away, which looked as 
if it might be easily broken into, and thither he 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


197 


betook himself promptly, entertaining himself on the 
way with the idea of a room still hot, with a table still 
loaded with the remains of supper, where he might 
pass the rest of the black hours, and whence he should 
issue, on the morrow, with an armful of valuable plate. 
He even considered on what viands and what wines he 
should prefer; and, as he was calling the roll of his 
favorite dainties, roast fish presented itself to his mind 
with an odd mixture of amusement and horror. 

“I shall never finish that ballad,’’ he thought to 
himself; and then, with another shudder at the recol¬ 
lection, “Oh, damn his fat head!” he repeated fer¬ 
vently, and spat upon the snow. 

The house in question looked dark at first sight; but 
as Villon made a preliminary inspection in search 
of the handiest point of attack, a little twinkle of light 
caught his eye from behind a curtained window. 

“The devil!” he thought. “People awake! Some 
student or some saint, confound the crew! Can’t they 
get drunk and lie in bed snoring like their neighbors! 
What’s the good of curfew, and poor devils of bell¬ 
ringers jumping at a rope’s end in bell-towers? 
What’s the use of day, if people sit up all night? The 
gripes to them!” He grinned as he saw where his 
logic was leading him. “Every man to his business, 
after all,” added he, “and if they’re awake, by the 
Lord, I may come by a supper honestly for once, and 
cheat the devil.” 

He went boldly to the door and-knocked with an 
assured hand. On both previous occasions, he had 
knocked timidly and with some dread of attracting 


198 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

notice; but now, when he had just discarded the 
thought of a burglarious entry, knocking at a door 
seemed a mighty simple and innocent proceeding. 
The sound of his blows echoed through the house with 
thin, phantasmal reverberations, as though it were 
quite empty; but these had scarcely died away before 
a measured tread drew near, a couple of bolts were 
withdrawn, and one wing was opened broadly, as 
though no guile or fear of guile were known to those 
within. A tall figure of a man, muscular and spare, 
but a little bent, confronted Villon. The head was 
massive in bulk, but finely sculptured; the nose blunt 
at the bottom, but refining upward to where it joined 
a pair of strong and honest eyebrows; the mouth and 
eyes surrounded with delicate markings, and the 
whole face based upon a thick white beard, boldly 
and squarely trimmed. Seen as it was by the light 
of a flickering hand-lamp, it looked perhaps nobler 
than it had a right to do; but it was a fine face, 
honorable rather than intelligent, strong, simple, and 
righteous. 

“You knock late, sir,” said the old man in resonant, 
courteous tones. 

Villon cringed, and brought up many servile w T ords 
of apology; at a crisis of this sort, the beggar was 
uppermost in him, and the man of genius hid his head 
with confusion. 

“You are cold,” repeated the old man, “and hun¬ 
gry? Well, step in.” And he ordered him into the 
house with a noble enough gesture. 

“Some grand seigneur,” thought Villon, as his host, 


A LODGING FOE THE NIGHT 


199 


setting down the lamp on the flagged pavement of the 
entry, shot the bolts once more into their places. 

“Yon will pardon me if I go in front/’ he said, 
when this was done; and he preceded the poet upstairs 
into a large apartment, warmed with a pan of charcoal 
and lit by a great lamp hanging from the roof. It 
was very bare of furniture: only some gold plate on a 
sideboard; some folios; and a stand of armor between 
the windows. Some smart tapestry hung upon the 
walls, representing the crucifixion^pf our Lord in one 
piece, and in another a scene of shepherds and shep¬ 
herdesses by a running stream. Over the chimney 
was a shield of arms. 

“Will you seat yourself,” said the old man, “and 
forgive me if I leave you? I am alone in my house 
tonight, and if you are to eat I must forage for you 
myself. ’ ’ 

No sooner was his host gone than Villon leaped from 
the chair on which he had just seated himself, and 
began examining the room, with the stealth and pas¬ 
sion of a cat. He weighed the gold flagons in his 
hand, opened all the folios, and investigated the arms 
upon the shield, and the stuff with which the seats 
were lined. He raised the window curtains, and saw 
that the windows were set with rich stained glass in 
figures, so far as he could see, of martial import. Then 
he stood in the middle of the room, drew a long 
breath, and retaining it with puffed cheeks, looked 
round and round him, turning on his heels, as if to 
impress every feature of the apartment on his memory. 

“Seven pieces of plate,” he said. “If there had 


200 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


been ten, I would have risked it. A fine house, and a 
fine old master, so help me all the saints!” 

And just then, hearing the old man’s tread return¬ 
ing along the corridor, he stole back to his chair, and 
began humbly toasting his wet legs before the charcoal 
pan. 

His entertainer had a plate of meat in one hand and 
a jug of wine in the other. He set down the plate 
upon the table, motioning Villon to draw in his chair, 
and going to the sideboard, brought back two goblets, 
which he filled. 

“I drink your better fortune,” he said, gravely 
touching Villon’s cup with his own. 

‘ ‘ To our better acquaintance , 91 said the poet, grow¬ 
ing bold. A mere man of the people would have been 
awed by the courtesy of the old seigneur, but Villon 
was hardened in that matter ; he had made mirth for 
great lords before now, and found them as black 
rascals as himself. And so he devoted himself to the 
viands with a ravenous gusto, while the old man, lean¬ 
ing backward, watched him with steady, curious eyes. 

“You have blood on your shoulder, my man,” he 
said. 

Montigny must have laid his wet right hand upon 
him as he left the house. He cursed Montigny in his 
heart. 

‘ ‘ It was none of my shedding, ’ ’ he stammered. 

‘ ‘ I had not supposed so , 9 ’ returned his host quietly. 
“A brawl?” 

“Well, something of that sort,” Villon admitted 
with a quaver. 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


201 


“Perhaps a fellow murdered?” 

“Oh no, not murdered,” said the poet, more and 
more confused. “It was all fair play—murdered by 
accident. I had no hand in it, God strike me dead! ’ ’ 
he added fervently. 

“One rogue the fewer, I dare say,” observed the 
master of the house. 

“You may dare to say that,” agreed Villon, infi¬ 
nitely relieved. “As big a rogue as there is between 
here and Jerusalem. He turned up his toes like a 
lamb. But it was a nasty thing to look at. I dare say 
you’ve seen dead men in your time, my lord?” he 
added, glancing at the armor. 

“Many,” said the old man. “I have followed the 
wars, as you imagine.” 

Villon laid down his knife and fork, which he had 
just taken up again. 

“Were any of them bald?” he asked. 

‘ ‘ Oh yes, and with hair as white as mine. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think I should mind the white so much,” 
said Villon. “His was red.” And he had a return of 
his shuddering and tendency to laughter, which he 
drowned with a great draught of wine. “I’m a little 
put out when I think of it,” he went on. “I knew 
him—damn him! And then the cold gives a man 
fancies—or the fancies give a man cold, I don’t know 
which.” 

“Have you any money?” asked the old man. 

“I have one white,” returned the poet, laughing. 
“I got it out of a dead jade’s stocking in a porch. 
She was as dead as Caesar, poor wench, and as cold as 


202 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


a church, with bits of ribbon sticking in her hair. 
This is a hard world in winter for wolves and wenches 
and poor rogues like me.” 

“I,” said the old man, “am Enguerrand de la 
Feuillee, seigneur de Brisetout, bailly du Patatrac. 
Who and what may you be ? ” 

Villon rose and made a suitable reverence. “I am 
called Francis Villon,” he said, “a poor Master of 
Arts of this university. I know some Latin and a deal 
of vice. I can make chansons, ballads, lais, virelais, 
and roundels, and I am very fond of wine. I was 
bom in a garret, and I shall not improbably die upon 
the gallows. I may add, my lord, that from this night 
forward I am your lordship’s very obsequious servant 
to command.” 

‘ ‘ No servant of mine, ’ ’ said the knight; ‘ ‘ my guest 
for this evening, and no more.” . 

“A very grateful guest,” said Villon, politely; and 
he drank in dumb show to his entertainer. 

“You are shrewd,” began the old man, tapping his 
forehead, “very shrewd; you have learning; you are 
a clerk; and yet you take a small piece of money off 
a dead woman in the street. Is it not a kind of theft ? ’ ’ 

“It is a kind of theft much practiced in the wars, 
my lord.” 

“The wars are the field of honor,” returned the 
old man proudly. “There a man plays his life upon 
the cast; he fights in the name of his lord the king, his 
Lord God, and all their lordships the holy saints and 
angels. ’’ 

“Put it,” said Villon, “that I were really a thief, 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 203 

should I not play my life also, and against heavier 
odds?” 

‘ ‘ For gain but not for honor.’ ’ 

“Gain?” repeated Villon with a shrug. “Gain! 
The poor fellow wants supper, and takes it. So does 
the soldier in a campaign. Why, what are all these 
requisitions we hear so much about? If they are not 
gain to those who take them, they are loss enough to 
the others. The men-at-arms drink by a good fire, 
while the burgher bites his nails to buy them wine and 
wood. I have seen a good many ploughmen swinging 
on trees about the country; ay, I have seen thirty on 
one elm, and a very poor figure they made; and when I 
asked someone how all these came to be hanged, I was 
told it was because they could not scrape together 
enough crowns to satisfy the men-at-arms.” 

‘ ‘ These things are a necessity of war, which the low¬ 
born must endure with constancy. It is true that 
some captains drive overhard; there are spirits in 
every rank not easily moved by pity; and indeed many 
follow arms who are no better than brigands.” 

“You see,” said the poet, “you cannot separate the 
soldier from the brigand; and what is a thief but an 
isolated brigand with circumspect manners ? I steal a 
couple of mutton chops, without so much as disturbing 
people’s sleep; the farmer grumbles a bit, but sups 
none the less wholesomely on what remains. You 
come up blowing gloriously on a trumpet, take away 
the whole sheep, and beat the farmer pitifully into 
the bargain. I have no trumpet; I am only Tom, Dick, 
or Harry; I am a rogue and a dog, and hanging’s 


204 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


too good for me—with all my heart; but just ask the 
farmer which of us he prefers, just find out which of 
us he lies awake to curse on cold nights. ” 

“Look at us two,” said his lordship. “I am old, 
strong, and honored. If I were turned from my house 
to-morrow, hundreds would be proud to shelter me. 
Poor people would go out and pass the night in the 
streets with their children, if I merely hinted that I 
wished to be alone. And I find you up, wandering 
homeless, and picking farthings off dead women by 
the wayside! I fear no man and nothing; I have seen 
you tremble and lose countenance at a word. I wait 
God’s summons contentedly in my own house, or, if it 
please the king to call me out again upon the field of 
battle. You look for the gallows; a rough, swift 
death, without hope or honor. Is there no difference 
between these two?” 

“As far as to the moon,” Villon acquiesced. “But 
if I had been born lord of Brisetout, and you had been 
the poor scholar Francis, would the difference have 
been any the less ? Should not I have been warming 
my knees at this charcoal pan, and would not you 
have been groping for farthings in the snow ? Should 
not I have been the soldier, and you the thief ? ’ * 

‘ ‘ A thief ? 99 cried the old man. “Ia thief! If you 
understood your words, you would repent them.” 

Villon turned out his hands with a gesture of inimi¬ 
table impudence. “If your lordship had done me the 
honor to follow my argument!” he said. 

“I do you too much honor in submitting to your 
presence,” said the knight. “Learn to curb your 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


205 


tongue when you speak with old and honorable men, 
or some one hastier than I may reprove you in a 
sharper fashion.” And he rose and paced the lower 
end of the apartment, struggling with anger and 
antipathy. Villon surreptitiously refilled his cup, and 
settled himself more comfortably in the chair, cross¬ 
ing his knees and leaning his head upon one hand and 
the elbow against the back of the chair. He was now 
replete and warm; and he was in nowise frightened for 
his host, having gauged him as justly as was possible 
between two such different characters. The night was 
far spent, and in a very comfortable fashion after all; 
and he felt morally certain of a safe departure on 
the morrow. 

“Tell me one thing,” said the old man, pausing in 
his walk. “Are you really a thief?” 

11 1 claim the sacred rights of hospitality, ’ ’ returned 
the poet. “My lord, I am.” 

“You are very young,” the knight continued. 

“I should never have been so old,” replied Villon, 
showing his fingers, “ if I had not helped myself with 
these ten talents. They have been my nursing mothers 
and my nursing fathers.” 

“You may still repent and change.” 

“I repent daily,” said the poet. “There are few 
people more given to repentance than poor Francis. 
As for change, let somebody change my circumstances. 
A man must continue to eat, if it were only that he 
may continue to repent.” 

‘ ‘ The change must begin in the heart, ’ ’ returned the 
old man solemnly. 


206 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“My dear lord,” answered Villon, “do you really 
fancy that I steal for pleasure? I hate stealing, like 
any other piece of work of danger. My teeth chat¬ 
ter when I see a gallows. But I must eat, I must 
drink, I must mix in society of some sort. What the 
devil! Man is not a solitary animal —cui Deus femi- 
nam tradit. Make me king’s pantler—make me abbot 
of St. Denis; make me bailly of the Patatrac; and then 
I shall be changed indeed. But as long as you leave 
me the poor scholar Francis Villon, without a farthing, 
why, of course, I remain the same.” 

“The grace of God is all-powerful.” 

“I should be a heretic to question it,” said Francis. 
“It has made you lord of Brisetout and bailly of the 
Patatrac; it has given me nothing but the quick wits 
under my hat and these ten toes upon my hands. May 
I help myself to wine ? I thank you respectfully. By 
God’s grace, you have a very superior vintage. ’ ’ 

The lord of Brisetout walked to and fro with his 
hands behind his back. Perhaps he was not yet quite 
settled in his mind about the parallel between thieves 
and soldiers; perhaps Villon had interested him by 
some cross-thread of sympathy; perhaps his wits were 
simply muddled by so much unfamiliar reasoning; 
but, whatever the cause, he somehow yearned to con¬ 
vert the young man to a better way of thinking, and 
could not make up his mind to drive him forth again 
into the street. 

‘ ‘ There is something more than I can understand in 
this,” he said at length. “Your mouth is full of sub¬ 
tleties, and the devil has led you very far astray; but 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


207 


the devil is only a very weak spirit before God’s truth, 
and all his subtleties vanish at a word of true honor, 
like darkness at morning. Listen to me once more. I 
learned long ago that a gentleman should live chival¬ 
rously and lovingly to God, and the king, and his lady; 
and, though I have seen many strange things done, I 
have still striven to command my ways upon that rule. 
It is not only written in all noble histories, but in 
every man’s heart, if he will take care to read. You 
speak of food and wine, and I know very well that 
hunger is a difficult trial to endure; but you do not 
speak of other wants; you say nothing of honor, of 
faith to God and other men, of courtesy, of love with¬ 
out reproach. It may be that I am not very wise— 
and yet I think I am—but you seem to me like one 
who has lost his way and made a great error in life. 
You are attending to the little wants, and you have 
totally forgotten the great and only real ones, like a 
man who should be doctoring toothache on the Judg¬ 
ment Day. For such things as honor and love and 
faith are not only nobler than food and drink, but 
indeed I think we desire them more, and suffer more 
sharply for their absence. I speak to you as I think 
you will most easily understand me. Are you not, 
while careful to fill your belly, disregarding another 
appetite in your heart, which spoils the pleasure of 
your life and keeps you continually wretched ? ’ ’ 
Villon was sensibly nettled under all this sermon¬ 
izing. “You think I have no sense of honor!” he 
cried. “I’m poor enough, God knows! It’s hard to 
see rich people with their gloves, and you blowing in 


208 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


your hands. An empty belly is a bitter thing, al¬ 
though you speak so lightly of it. If you had had as 
many as I, perhaps you would change your tune. 
Anyway I’m a thief—make the most of that—but I’m 
not a devil from hell, God strike me dead. I would 
have you to know I’ve an honor of my own, as good 
as yours, though I don’t prate about it all day long, as 
if it was a God’s miracle to have any. It seems quite 
natural to me; I keep it in its box till it’s wanted. 
Why now, look you here, how long have I been in this 
room with you ? Did you not tell me you were alone 
in the house? Look at your gold plate! You’re 
strong, if you like, but you ’re old and unarmed, and I 
have my knife. What did I want but a jerk of the 
elbow and here would have been you with the cold 
steel in your bowels, and there would have been me, 
linking in the streets, with an armful of golden cups! 
Did you suppose I hadn’t wit enough to see that? 
And I scorned the action. There are your damned 
goblets, as safe as in a church; there are you, with 
your heart ticking as good as new; and here am I, 
ready to go out again as poor as I came in, with my 
one white that you threw in my teeth! And you think 
I have no sense of honor—God strike me dead! ’ ’ 

The old man stretched out his right arm. “I will 
tell you what you are,” he said. “You are a rogue, 
my man,, an impudent and black-hearted rogue and 
vagabond. I have passed an hour with you. Oh! 
believe me, I feel myself disgraced! And you have 
eaten and drunk at my table. But now I am sick at 
your presence; the day has come, and the night-bird 


A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT 


209 


should be off to his roost. Will you go before, or 
after ?” 

4 ‘ Which you please, ’ ’ returned the poet, rising. 4 4 I 
believe you to be strictly honorable.” He thought¬ 
fully emptied his cup. 44 1 wish I could add you were 
intelligent,” he went on, knocking on his head with 
his knuckles. “Age, age! the brains stiff and rheu¬ 
matic. ’’ 

The old man preceded him from a point of self- 
respect; Villon followed, whistling, with his thumbs 
in his girdle. 

44 God pity you,” said the lord of Brisetout at the 
door. 

“Good-bye, papa,” returned Villon with a yawn. 

44 Many thanks for the cold mutton.” 

The door closed behind him. The dawn was break¬ 
ing over the white roofs. A chill uncomfortable morn¬ 
ing ushered in the day. Villon stood and heartily 
stretched himself in the middle of the road. 

44 A very dull old gentleman,” he thought. 44 I 
wonder what his goblets may be worth.” 

Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850-1894. 

Robert Louis Stevenson, one of the most conspicuous and 
best loved writers of our late nineteenth century, sprang from 
an Edinburgh family of civil engineers. A physical sufferer 
from infancy, he was unable to attend school regularly. How¬ 
ever, in company with his father he early took many trips along 
the coast of Scotland. Learning the lore of the highlanders, or 
silently rambling in the Pentlands, he was “always busy on 
my own private end, which was to learn to write.” Later, he 
studied civil engineering and law. The strenuous life of the 


210 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


former and a disinclination for the latter caused him to devote 
himself to writing. After making two trips to America, a 
cruise to Honolulu, several trips to various parts of the conti¬ 
nent, Australia, and the Sandwich Islands, in a vain attempt 
to be well, he finally settled at Samoa, where he spent the last 
four years of his life. Here he ruled, a sort of “benignant 
chieftain’’ to his loving subjects. 

During his brief life he had written continually. As a 
result he left several volumes of critical essays, traveler’s 
sketches, novels, short-stories, poems. 

To Stevenson literary composition was a fine art, to be 
acquired and perfected only by earnest effort. To this effort 
may be added his natural gifts of imagination and a sympa¬ 
thetic understanding of life, a mind alert in its expression and 
capable of giving the tone of novelty even to the most common¬ 
place narrative. Thus he became a literary artist and one of 
the greatest short-story writers, and thus, both in style and in 
subject matter he influences nearly all writers who have 
succeeded him. 

Suggested Reading: Th# Strange Case of Dr. JeTcyll and 
Mr. Hyde, Thrown Janet, Will o’ the Mill, The Sire de 
MaletroiVs Door, MarJcheim, Tales from New Arabian Nights, 
The Bottle Imp. 


THE NECKLACE 1 


She was one of those pretty and charming girls, 
born by a mistake of fate in a family of clerks. She 
had no dowry, no expectations, no means of being 
known, understood, loved, married by a rich and dis¬ 
tinguished man; and she allowed herself to be mar¬ 
ried to a little clerk in the Department of Public 
Instruction. 

Not being able to adorn herself, she was simple; 
but she was as unhappy as one fallen from her proper 
station.*- As women have neither caste nor descent, 
their beauty, their grace, their charms take the place 
of fortune and family. Their native refinement, their 
instinctive elegance, their flexible minds are their only 
hierarchy, and make the daughters of the common 
people equal to those of the loftiest nobleman. 

She suffered constantly, feeling herself bom for 
delicacies and luxuries. She suffered from the pov¬ 
erty of her dwelling, and from the wretchedness of 
the walls, from the worn-out chairs, from the ugliness 
of the materials. All these things which another 
woman of her rank would not have noticed, tortured 
and angered her. The sight of the little Breton girl 
who did her humble housework awoke in her sorrow¬ 
ful regrets and distracting dreams. She mused on 
quiet antechambers, hung with Oriental tapestries, 
lighted by tall bronze candelabra, and on the two 
tall footmen in knee breeches who slept in the large 

1. Translated from the French by Nellie Octavia P16e. 

211 


212 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


arm chairs made drowsy by the heat from the hot-air 
furnace. She mused on drawing-rooms hung with 
ancient silk, on delicately wrought furniture bearing 
priceless bric-a.-brac, and on coquettish little rooms, 
perfumed, and made for the five o’clock talks with 
most intimate friends, men famous and sought after, 
the attentions of whom women envy and desire. 

When she sat down to dine, at the round table cov¬ 
ered with a cloth already used three days, opposite her 
husband who uncovered the soup, declaring with an 
air of satisfaction, “Ah, the good stew! I know of 
nothing better than that, ’ ’ she was thinking of dainty 
dinners, of shining silverware, of tapestries peopling 
the walls with ancient personages and with strange 
birds in the midst of a fanciful forest; she was think¬ 
ing of exquisite dishes served on marvelous platters, 
of whispered gallantries heard with a sphinx-like 
smile, while one is eating the pink flesh of a trout or 
the wings of a bird. 

She had no dresses, no jewelry, nothing. And she 
loved nothing but that; she felt as if she were made 
for that. She desired so much to please, to be envied, 
to be bewitching, to be sought after. 

She had a rich friend who had been a classmate at 
the convent, and whom she did not wish to go to see 
any more because she suffered so upon her return. 
And she cried every day from chagrin, from regret, 
from despair, and from distress. 

But, one evening, her husband came home with a 
proud air, holding in his hand a large envelope. 

“Look,” said he, “here is something for you.” 


THE NECKLACE 213 

She quickly tore the paper and took out a printed 
card bearing these words: 

“The Minister of Public Instruction and Mme. 
Georges Rampouneau beg M. and Mme. Loisel to give 
them the honor of spending the evening at the man¬ 
sion-house of the Ministry, on Monday, the eighteenth 
of January.’’ 

Instead of being delighted, as her husband hoped, 
she threw the letter on the table with vexation, 
murmuring: 

‘ ‘ What do you want me to do with that ? ’ ’ 

“But, my dear, I thought you would be pleased. 
You never go out, and here is an opportunity, a fine 
one. I had no little trouble to get it. Everybody 
wants one; they are very much sought after; and not 
many are given to clerks. You will see there the whole 
official world.” 

She looked at him with an angry eye, and declared 
with impatience: 

“What do you want me to put on my back to go 
there?” 

He had not thought of that; he hesitated: 

“But the dress you wear to the theatre. It looks 
very good to me. ...” 

He stopped, astonished and distracted, upon seeing 
that his wife was weeping. Two great tears were 
slowly rolling from the comers of her eyes towards 
the corners of her mouth. He faltered: 

“What is the matter? What is the matter?” 

But with a violent effort she overcame her misery, 
and, wiping her wet cheeks, she replied in a calm tone: 


214 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“Nothing. Only I have no dress and consequently 
can not go to this party. Give your invitation to 
some colleague whose wife is better fitted out than I. ’ ’ 

He was in great distress. He began again: 

“Let us see, Mathilde. How much would a dress 
cost which would be suitable to use on other occa¬ 
sions; something very simple?” 

She reflected a few seconds, calculating and con¬ 
sidering how much she could ask for, without bring¬ 
ing upon herself an immediate refusal and an ex¬ 
clamation of fright from the economical clerk. 

“ I do not know exactly, but I think that with four 
hundred francs I could do it.” 

He became slightly pale, for he had saved just that 
amount to buy a gun and to treat himself to some 
shooting, the following summer, near the plain of 
Nanterre, with some friends who went there to shoot 
larks on Sundays. 

However, he said: 

“Very well. I will give you four hundred francs. 
But try to have a pretty gown. ’ ’ 

The day of the ball approached, and Mme. Loisel 
appeared sad, uneasy, anxious. Her gown, however, 
was ready. One evening her husband said to her: 

“What is the matter? Come, now, for the last 
three days you have been very strange.” 

And she replied: 

“It annoys me to have no jewelry, no gem, nothing 
to put on me. I shall look poverty-stricken enough. 
I should almost rather not go to this party. ’ 9 

He answered: 


THE NECKLACE 


215 


“You might wear natural flowers. They are very 
stylish at this season of the year. For ten francs you 
can get two or three beautiful roses.” 

She was not in the least convinced. 

“No, there is nothing more humiliating than to 
look poor among other women who are rich.” 

But her husband exclaimed: 

4 ‘ How stupid you are! Go find your friend, Mme. 
Forestier, and ask her to lend you some jewelry. You 
are friendly enough with her to do that.” 

She gave a cry of joy. 

“It is true. I had not thought of it.” 

The next day she proceeded to her friend’s house 
and told her of her trouble. 

Mme. Forestier went to a closet with a mirrored 
door, brought out a large casket, opened it, and said 
to Mme. Loisel: 

“Take your choice, my dear.” 

First she saw bracelets, then a pearl necklace, then 
a Venetian cross of gold set with precious stones of 
wonderful workmanship. She tried on the necklace 
before the mirror, hesitated, not able to decide to take 
them off and to return them. She continued to ask: 

“You have nothing else?” 

“'JV'hy, yes. Look. I do not know what would 
please you.” 

Suddenly she discovered, in a black satin box, a 
superb diamond necklace, and her heart beat long¬ 
ingly. Her hands trembled in taking it. She fastened 
it around her throat, outside her high-necked dress, 
and remaiii&l enraptured before her own reflection. 


216 


SHOET STOEIES FOE HIGH SCHOOLS 


Then, hesitating and filled with anxiety, she asked: 

‘ ‘ Can you let me take this, only this ? ’’ 

“Why, yes, certainly.” 

She sprang upon her friend’s neck, ardently em¬ 
braced her, then ran away with her treasure. 

The day of the ball arrived. Mme. Loisel was a 
success. She was the most beautiful of them all, ele¬ 
gant, gracious, smiling, and wildly joyful. All the 
men looked at her, asked her name, sought to be pre¬ 
sented to her. All the attaches of the Cabinet wanted 
to waltz with her. The Minister himself took notice 
of her. 

She danced madly, transported, intoxicated with 
pleasure, thinking of nothing, in the triumph of 
her beauty, in the glory of her success, in a sort of 
cloud of happiness made of all the homages of all 
the admirations, of all the awakened desires, of this 
victory, so complete and so sweet to a woman’s 
heart. 

It was about four o’clock in the morning when she 
left. Her husband, since midnight, had been sleeping 
in a little deserted anteroom with three other men 
whose wives were enjoying themselves. 

He threw over her shoulders the wraps which he 
had brought for the purpose of wearing home, mod¬ 
est wraps of ordinary people, the poverty of which 
contrasted strongly with the elegance of her ball 
dress. She was conscious of this, and wanted to hurry 
away so it would not be noticed by the other women, 
who were enveloping themselves in rich furs. 

Loisel held her back. 


THE NECKLACE 


217 


“Wait a moment. You will catch cold outside. I 
will call a cab.’ ’ 

But she paid no attention to him, and ran rapidly 
down the stairs. When they were in the street, they 
could not find a carriage. They began to look for one, 
calling to the cabmen whom they saw passing in the 
distance. 

Discouraged and shivering, they went down toward 
the Seine. Finally they found on the quay one of 
those old noctambulist cabs which one sees in Paris 
only after nightfall, as if during the day they were 
ashamed of their wretchedness. 

It brought them to their door in the Rue des Mar¬ 
tyrs; and they sadly ascended their own stairs. It 
was all ended for her, and he was thinking that he 
should have to be at the Ministry at ten o’clock. 

She took off the wraps with which she had envel¬ 
oped her shoulders, before the mirror, so that she 
might see herself once more in her glory. But sud¬ 
denly she cried out. She no longer had the necklace 
around her neck. 

Her husband, already half undressed, asked: 

“What’s the matter?” 

She turned in terror toward him. 

“I’ve—I’ve—I’ve lost Mme. Forestier’s necklace.” 

He stood up, aghast. 

‘ ‘ What! How! It is impossible! ’ ’ 

And they searched in the folds of her dress, in the 
folds of her mantle, in the pockets, everywhere. 
They did not find it. 

He asked: 


218 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“You are sure that you still had it when you left 
the ball ?’’ 

“Yes, I felt of it in the vestibule of the Ministry.” 

“But if you had lost it in the street we should 
have heard it fall. It must be in the cab.” 

“Yes, probably it is. Did you take the number?” 

“No. And you, did you notice it?” 

“No.” 

They gazed at each other dumfounded. Finally, 
Loisel dressed himself. 

“I will go back over the whole distance that we 
walked,” said he, “to see if I can find it.” 

And he went out. She remained in her ball dress, 
in a chair, spiritless, without strength to retire, with¬ 
out thought. 

Her husband returned about seven o ’clock. He had 
found nothing. 

He went to the police headquarters, to the news¬ 
papers to offer a reward, to the cab companies; in 
short, wherever a grain of hope was possible. 

She waited all day in the same distracted condition 
in face of this terrible disaster. 

Loisel returned in the evening, with face pale and 
sunken. He had discovered nothing. 

“You had better write to your friend,” he said, 
“that you have broken the clasp of the necklace and 
that you are having it mended. That will give us 
time to do something.” 

She wrote at his dictation. 

By the end of a week they had lost all hope. And 
Loisel, older by five years, declared: 


THE NECKLACE 


219 


We must consider how to replace the jewel.’ ’ 

The next day they took the box which had con¬ 
tained it to the jeweler whose name they found inside. 
He consulted his books. 

“It was not I, Madam, who sold this necklace. I 
simply furnished the case.” 

Then they went from jewelry store to jewelry store, 
looking for a necklace like the other, consulting their 
memory, both sick from grief and distress. 

They found, in a shop in the Palais-Royal, a chaplet 
of diamonds, which looked exactly like the one they * 
were seeking. It was valued at forty thousand francs. 
They could have it for thirty-six thousand. 

They begged the jeweler not to sell it for three 
days, and they made arrangements by which they 
could return it for thirty-four thousand francs, if the 
first one was found before the end of February. 

Loisel possessed eighteen thousand francs which 
his father had left him. He would borrow the rest. 

He did borrow, asking a thousand francs from one, 
five hundred from another, five louis here, three there. 
He gave promissory notes, made extravagant promises, 
did business with usurers and all sorts of money 
lenders. He compromised every means of his exist¬ 
ence, risked his signature without knowing whether 
he should be able to honor it; and, terrified by anxiety 
for the future, by the black misery which seemed to 
be settling over him, by the prospect of every physical 
privation and every moral torture, he went to get the 
new necklace, depositing upon the counter of the 
merchant thirty-six thousand francs. 


220 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

When Mme. Loisel returned the necklace to Mme. 
Forestier, the latter said, rather 9 coolly: 

“You ought to have returned it sooner, for I might 
have needed it.” 

She did not open the casket, as her friend feared 
she would do. If she had noticed the substitution, 
what would she have thought ? What would she have 
said? Would she not have taken her for a thief? 

Mme. Loisel experienced the dreadful life of those 
in need. She took her part immediately and heroic¬ 
ally. This dreadful debt must be paid. She could 
help. They dismissed the maid; they changed their 
place of living; they took a garret under the roof. 

She learned to know the heavy work of housekeep¬ 
ing, the odious labor of the kitchen. She washed 
dishes, using her pink nails on the greasy pots and 
pans. She washed the soiled linen, the shirts and 
house clothes, which she dried on a line; every morn¬ 
ing she took the garbage down to the street, and 
carried up water, stopping at each flight of stairs to 
get her breath. And, dressed like a common woman, 
with a basket on her arm, she went to the fruit seller, 
the grocer, the butcher, bargaining, insulted, defend¬ 
ing, bit by bit, her miserable silver. 

Each month they had to pay some notes, and to 
renew others to obtain time. 

Her husband worked evenings to set in order the 
books of a merchant, and at night he frequently did 
copying at five sous a page. 

And this life lasted ten years. 

At the end of ten years, they had paid everything, 


THE NECKLACE 


221 

everything with a usurer’s rate, and the accumula¬ 
tions of interest. 

By this time, Mme. Loisel looked like an old woman. 
She had become the stout, hard, rough woman of a 
poverty-stricken household. With hair unkempt, skirts 
askew, and red hands, she spoke in a loud voice and 
washed the floors, splashing water freely. But, occa¬ 
sionally, when her husband was at the office, she would 
sit down near the window, and she would think of that 
former evening, of that ball, where she had been so 
beautiful, so entertained. 

What would have happened if she had not lost that 
necklace? Who knows? Who knows? How strange 
and changeable is life! What a little thing it takes 
to ruin you or to save you! 

But one Sunday, as she was taking a walk in the 
Champ Elysses, to refresh herself after the labors of 
the week, she suddenly saw a woman who was walking 
with a child. It was Mme. Forestier, still young, still 
beautiful, still fascinating. 

Mme. Loisel felt moved. Should she speak to her? 
Yes, certainly. And now that she had paid every¬ 
thing, she would tell her all. Why not? 

She approached her. 

“Good morning, Jeanne.’’ 

The other woman, astonished to be so familiarly 
addressed by this common woman, did not recognize 
her at all. She stammered: 

“But . . . madam! ... I do not know. . . . You 
are mistaken.” 

“No, I am Mathilde Loisel.” 


222 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


Her friend uttered a cry. 

“Oh!—My poor Mathilde, how you are changed!” 

“Yes, I have had hard days since I saw you, and 
much misery—and that on account of you.” 

“Of me? How is that?” 

“You remember that diamond necklace which you 
let me take to go to the ball at the Ministry ? ’ ’ 

“Yes. Well?” 

“Well, Host it.” 

“How can that be, since you returned it to me?” 

“I brought you back another exactly like it. And 
we have been paying for it these ten years. You 
understand that was not easy for us, who had nothing. 
At last it is ended, and I am exceedingly glad.” 

Mme. Forestier had stood still. 

“You say that you bought a diamond necklace to 
replace mine?” 

“Yes. You did not notice it, then? They were 
exactly alike.” 

And she smiled with proud, unaffected joy. 

Mme. Forestier, greatly moved, took both her 
hands. 

“ Oh! My poor Mathilde ! But mine were paste. 
They were worth at most five hundred francs! ’ ’ 

Guy de Maupassant, 1850-1893. 

The “foremost master” of the short-story is Maupassant, 
a native of Normandy, the child of a titled family, the descend¬ 
ant of a long line of narrative writers. He received his educa¬ 
tion at the Rouen Lycee, served in the Franco-Prussian War, 
and held positions in several of the departments of state at 
Paris. Of a restless nature even during the period of his 


THE NECKLACE 


223 


writing, he spent much time in traveling through the islands 
and countries of Corsica, Sicily, Italy, and Algeria, and in 
cruising along the Mediterranean shores. After seven years of 
practice under the critical guidance of his uncle and scholarly 
master, Flaubert, he published in 1880 his first work, a short- 
story. During the next ten years, a period which virtually 
covers his literary life, he produced nearly thirty volumes of 
fiction, drama, travel, and verse. The contents of sixteen of 
these volumes consisted of short-stories. However, though 
strenuous, his literary career was short; its end, a tragedy. 
A mental malady hastened its termination. He died at a 
retreat in Paris. 

Maupassant’s style is simple, lucid, accurate. He is a master 
of compression and of language. A psychologist by nature, 
he produces a tone of subtle analysis throughout his writings. 
To these excellent qualities is added the fact that many of his 
stories deal with his native Normandy; hence his characters 
are real people, his scenes real places. Thus he stands, the 
greatest short-story writer the nineteenth century has produced. 

Suggested Eeadings: En Voyage, The Confession, Fear, 
The Piece of String, Moonlight, The Coward. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


His full name was Percival William Williams, but 
he picked up the other name in a nursery-book, and 
that was the end of the christened titles. His mother’s 
ayah 1 called him Willie-Baba, but, as he never paid 
the faintest attention to anything that the ayah -said, 
her wisdom did not help matters. 

His father was colonel of the 195th, and, as soon as 
Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to understand 
what military discipline meant, Col. Williams put him 
under it. There was no other way of managing the 
child. When he was good for a week, he drew good- 
conduct pay; and when he was bad, he was deprived 
of his good-conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for 
India offers so many chances to little six-year-olds of 
going wrong. 

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and Wee 
Willie Winkie was a very particular child. Once he 
accepted an acquaintance he was graciously pleased 
to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a subaltern of the 
195th, on sight. Brandis was having tea at the 
Colonel’s, and Wee Willie Winkie entered, strong in 
the possession of a good-conduct badge won for not 
chasing the hens round the compound. He regarded 
Brandis with gravity for at least ten minutes, and 
then delivered himself of his opinion. 

“I like you,” said he, slowly, getting off his chair 

1. Nursery maid. 


224 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


225 


and coming over to Brandis. “I like you. I shall 
call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do you mind 
being called Coppy? It is because of ve hair, you 
know.” 

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee 
Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at a 
stranger for some time, and then, without warn¬ 
ing or explanation, would give him a name. And the 
name stuck. No regimental penalties could break 
Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost his good- 
conduct badge for christening the commissioner’s wife 
“Pobs”; but nothing that the Colonel could do made 
the station forego the nickname, and Mrs. Collen re¬ 
mains Mrs. ‘ ‘ Pobs ’ ’ till the end of her stay. So Bran¬ 
dis was christened “Coppy,” and rose, therefore, in 
the estimation of the regiment. 

If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any one, 
the fortunate man was envied alike by the mess and 
the rank and file. And in their envy lay no suspicion 
of self-interest. “The Colonel’s son” Vas idolized 
on his own merits entirely. Yet Wee Willie Winkie 
was not lovely. His face was permanently freckled, 
as his legs were permanently scratched, and, in spite 
of his mother’s almost tearful remonstrances, he had 
insisted upon having his long, yellow locks cut short 
in the military fashion. “I want my hair like Ser¬ 
geant Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie: and, his 
father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. 

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful af¬ 
fections on Lieutenant Brandis—henceforward to be 
called “Coppy” for the sake of brevity—Wee Willie 


226 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

Winkie was destined to behold strange things and 
far beyond his comprehension. 

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy 
had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his own 
big sword—just as tall as Wee Willie Winkie. Coppy 
had promised him a terrier puppy; and Coppy had 
permitted him to witness the miraculous operation of 
shaving. Nay, more—Coppj^ had said that even he, 
Wee Willie Winkie, would rise in time to the owner¬ 
ship of a box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and 
a silver-handled “ sputter-brush/’ as Wee Willie 
Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one, ex¬ 
cept his father—who could give or take away good- 
conduct badges at pleasure—half so wise, strong, and 
valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and Egyptian 
medals on his breast. Why, then, should Coppy 
be guilty of the unmanly weakness of kissing— 
vehemently kissing—a “big girl,” Miss Allardyce 
to wit? In the course of a morning ride, Wee Willie 
Winkie had seen Coppy so doing, and, like the gen¬ 
tleman he was, had promptly wheeled round and 
cantered back to his groom, lest the groom should 
also see. 

Under ordinary circumstances, he would have 
spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that 
this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to be 
consulted. 

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining up 
outside that subaltern’s bungalow early in the morn¬ 
ing—“I want to see you, Coppy!” 

“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who was 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


227 


at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. “What 
mischief have you been getting into now?” 

Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notoriously 
bad for three days, and so stood on a pinnacle of 
virtue. 

“I’ve been doing nothing bad,” said he, curling 
himself into a long chair with a studious affectation 
of the Coloners languor after a hot parade. He 
buried his freckled nose in a teacup, and, with eyes 
staring roundly over the rim, asked: “I say, Coppy, 
is it pwoper to kiss big girls?” 

“By Jove! You’re beginning early.- Who do you 
want to kiss?” 

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if I 
don’t stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you 
kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, by 
ve canal?” 

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allardyce 
had, with great craft, managed to keep their engage¬ 
ment secret for a fortnight. There were urgent and 
imperative reasons why Major Allardyce should not 
know how matters stood for at least another month, 
and this small marplot had discovered a great deal 
too much. 

“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. 
“But ve groom didn’t see. I said, ‘Hut jao.’ ” 

“Oh, you had that much sense, you young rip,” 
groaned poor Coppy, half-amused and half-angry. 
‘ ‘ And how many people may you have told about it ? ” 

“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied 


228 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame; and I 
fought you wouldn’t like.” 

“Winkie,” said Coppy, enthusiastically, shaking 
the small hand, “you’re the best of good fellows. 
Look here, you can’t understand all these things. One 
of these days—hang it, how can I make you see it!— 
I’m going to marry Miss Allardyce, and then she’ll 
be Mrs.' Coppy, as you say. If your young mind is 
so scandalized at the idea of kissing big girls, go and 
tell your father.” 

“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
who firmly believed that his father was omnipotent. 

“I shall get into trouble,” said Coppy, playing his 
trump card with an appealing look at the holder of 
the ace. 

“Yen I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. 
“But my faver says it’s un-man-ly to be always kiss¬ 
ing, and I didn’t fink you’d do vat, Coppy.” 

“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only now 
and then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do it, too. 
Your father meant it’s not good for little boys.” 

“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully enlight¬ 
ened. “ It’s like ve sputter-brush ? ’ ’ 

“Exactly,” said Coppy, gravely. 

“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, 
nor no one, ’cept my muvver. And I must do vat, 
you know.” 

There was a long pause broken by Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?” 

“Awfully!” said Coppy. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


229 


“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha—or 
me?” 

“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You see, 
one of these days Miss Allardyce will belong to me, 
but you 11 grow up and command the regiment and— 
all sorts of things. It’s quite different, you see.” 

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. “If 
you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any one. I 
must go now. ’ ’ 

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the 
door, adding: “You’re the best of little fellows, 
Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days from now 
you can tell if you like—tell any one you like.” 

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce engage¬ 
ment was dependent on a little child’s word. Coppy, 
who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of truth, was at 
ease, for he felt that he would not break promises. 
Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a special and unusual 
interest in Miss Allardyce, and, slowly revolving 
round that embarrassed young lady, was used to re¬ 
gard her gravely with unwinking eye. He was trying 
to discover why Coppy should have kissed her. She 
was not half so nice as his own mother. On the 
other hand, she was Coppy’s property, and would in 
time belong to him. Therefore it behooved him to 
treat her with as much respect as Coppy’s big sword 
or shiny pistol. 

The idea that he shared a great secret in common 
with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie unusually vir¬ 
tuous for three weeks. Then the Old Adam broke 
out, and he made what he called a ‘ ‘ camp-fire ’ ’ at the 


230 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


bottom of the garden. How could he have foreseen 
that the flying sparks would have lighted the Colonel’s 
little hay-rick and consumed a week’s store for the 
horses ? Sudden and swift was the punishment—dep¬ 
rivation of the good-conduct badge, and, most sor¬ 
rowful of all, two days’ confinement to barracks— 
the house and veranda—coupled with the withdrawal 
of the light of his father’s countenance. 

He took the sentence like the man he strove to be, 
drew himself up with a quivering underlip, saluted, 
and, once clear of the room, ran to weep bitterly in 
his nursery—called by him “my quarters.” Coppy 
came in the afternoon and attempted to console the 
culprit. 

“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
mournfully, ‘ ‘ and I didn’t ought to speak to you. ’ ’ 

Very early in the next morning he climbed on to 
the roof of the house—that was not forbidden—and 
beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride. 

“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie Winkie. 

“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted 
forward. 

Now the cantonment in which the 195th lay was 
bounded on the north by a river—dry in the winter. 
From his earliest years, Wee Willie Winkie had been 
forbidden to go across the river, and had noted that 
even Coppy—the almost almighty Coppy—had never 
set foot beyond it. Wee Willie Winkie had once been 
read to (out of a big, blue book) the history of the 
princess and the goblins, the most wonderful tale of 
a land where the goblins were always warring with 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


231 


the children of men until they were defeated by one 
Curdie. Ever since that date, it seemed to him that 
the bare black-and-purple hills across the river were 
inhabited by goblins; and, in truth, every one had 
said that there lived the bad men. Even in his own 
house, the lower halves of the windows were covered 
with green paper on account of the bad men who 
might, if allowed clear view, fire into peaceful draw¬ 
ing-rooms and comfortable bedrooms. Certainly, be¬ 
yond the river, which was the end of all the earth, 
lived the bad men. And here was Major Allardyce’s 
big girl, Coppy’s property, preparing to venture into 
their borders! What would Coppy say if anything 
happened to her? If the goblins ran off with her as 
they did with Curdie’s princess? She must at all 
hazards be turned back. 

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie reflected 
for a moment on the very terrible wrath of his father; 
and then—broke his arrest! It was a crime unspeak¬ 
able. The low sun threw his shadow, very large and 
very black, on the trim garden-paths, as he went down 
to the stables and ordered his pony. It seemed to 
him, in the hush of the dawn, that all the big world 
had been bidden to stand still and look at Wee Willie 
Winkie guilty of mutiny. The drowsy groom handed 
him his mount, and, since the one great sin made all 
others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said that he 
was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, and went out 
at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft mold of the flower- 
borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the 


232 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 

last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy of 
humanity. He turned into the road, leaned forward, 
and rode as fast as the pony could put foot to the 
ground, in the direction of the river. 

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do little 
against the long canter of a waler. Miss Allardyce 
was far ahead, had passed through the crops, beyond 
the police-post, when all the guards were asleep, and 
her mount was scattering the pebbles of the river-bed 
as Wee Willie Winkie left the cantonment and Brit¬ 
ish India behind him. Bowed forward and still flog¬ 
ging, Wee Willie Winkie shot into Afghan territory, 
and could just see Miss Allardyce, a black speck, 
flickering across the stony plain. The reason of her 
wandering was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of 
too hastily assumed authority, had told her overnight 
that she must not ride out by the river. And she 
had gone to prove her own spirit and teach Coppy a 
lesson. 

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, Wee 
Willie Winkie saw the waler blunder and come down 
heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled clear, but her 
ankle had been severely twisted, and she could not 
stand. Having thus demonstrated her spirit, she wept 
copiously, and was surprised by the apparition of a 
white wide-eyed child in khaki, on a nearly spent 
pony. 

“Are you badly, badly hurted?” shouted Wee 
Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. “You 
didn’t ought to be here.” 

“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce, ruefully, 


WEE WILLIE WINKLE 


233 

ignoring the reproof. “Good gracious, child, what 
are yon doing here ? ’ ’ 

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,’ panted 
Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off his pony. 
“And nobody,—not even Coppy—must go acwoss ve 
wiver, and I came after you ever so hard; but you 
wouldn’t stop, and now you’ve hurted yourself, and 
Coppy will be angwy wiv me, and—I’ve bwoken my 
awwest! I’ve bwoken my awwest!” 

The future colonel of the 195th sat down and 
sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle, the girl 
was moved. 

“Have you ridden all the way from cantonments, 
little man? What for?” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” 
wailed Wee Willie Winkie, disconsolately. “I saw 
him kissing you, and he said he was fonder of you 
van Bell or ve Butcha. or me. And so I came. You 
must get up and come back. You didn’t ought .to be 
here. Vis is a bad place and I’ve bwoken my awwest.” 

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, with 
a groan. “ I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I do ? ” 

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which 
steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been brought 
up to believe that tears were the depth of unraanli- 
ness. Still, when one is as great a sinner as Wee 
Willie Winkie, even a man may be permitted to break 
down. 

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve 
rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out 
something to carry me back in. It hurts fearfully.” 


234 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


The child sat still for a little time, and Miss Allar- 
dyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly making her 
faint. She was roused by Wee Willie Winkie tying 
up the reins on his pony’s neck, and setting it free 
with a vicious cut of his whip that made it whicker. 
The little animal headed toward the cantonments. 

“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?” 

“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a man 
coming—one of ve bad men. I must stay wiv you. 
My faver says a man must always look after a girl. 
Jack will go home, and ven vey’ll come and look for 
us. Yat’s why I let him go.” 

Not one man but two or three had appeared from 
behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart of Wee 
Willie Winkie sank within him, for just in this man¬ 
ner were the goblins wont to steal out and vex Cur- 
die’s soul. Thus had they played in Curdie’s garden 
(he had seen the picture), and thus had they fright¬ 
ened the princess’s nurse. He heard them talking to 
each other, and recognized with joy the bastard 
Pushtu that he had picked up from one of his father’s 
grooms lately dismissed. People who spoke that 
tongue 1 could not be the bad men. They were only 
natives after all. 

They came up to the boulders on which Miss Allar- 
dyce’s horse had blundered. 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, child 
of the dominant race, aged six and three-quarters, 
and said, briefly and emphatically, “Jao!” The pony 
had crossed the river-bed. 

1. The language of Afghanistan. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


235 


The men laughed, and laughter from the natives 
was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could not toler¬ 
ate. He asked them what they wanted and why they 
did not depart. Other men, with most evil faces and 
crooked-stocked guns, crept out of the shadows of the 
hills, till soon Wee Willie Winkie was face to face 
with an audience some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce 
screamed. 

“Who are you?” said one of the men. 

“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order is 
that you go at once. You black men are frightening 
the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into canton¬ 
ments and take the news that the Miss Sahib has hurt 
herself, and that the Colonel’s son is here with her.” 

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing 
reply. ‘ ‘ Hear this boy’s speech! ’ ’ 

“Say that I sent you—I, the Colonel’s son. They 
will give you money.” 

“What is the use of this talk? Take up the child 
and the girl, and we can at least ask for the ransom. 
Ours are the villages on the heights,” said a voice 
in the background. 

These were the bad men—worse than the goblins— 
and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s training to 
prevent him from bursting into tears. But he felt 
that to cry before a native, excepting only his 
mother’s ayah, would be an infamy greater than any 
mutiny. Moreover, he, as future colonel of the 195th, 
had that grim regiment at his back. 

“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. 


236 SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur,” 1 said the tallest 
of the men; “and eat you afterward.” 

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. 
“Men do not eat men.” 

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went 
on, firmly: ‘ ‘ And if you do carry us away, I tell you 
that all my regiment will come up in a day and kill 
you all without leaving one. Who will take my mes¬ 
sage to the Colonel Sahib?” 

Speech in any vernacular—and Wee Willie Winkie 
had a colloquial acquaintance with three—was easy 
to the boy who could not yet manage his “r’s” and 
“th’s” aright. 

Another man joined the conference, crying: “Oh, 
foolish men! What this babe says is true. He is the 
heart’s heart of those white troops. For the sake of 
peace, let them go both; for, if he is taken, the regi¬ 
ment will break loose and gut the valley. Our vil¬ 
lages are in the valley, and we shall not escape. That 
regiment are devils. They broke Khoda Yar’s breast¬ 
bone with kicks when he tried to take the rifles; and 
if we touch this child, they will fire and rape and 
plunder for a month, till nothing remains. Better to 
send a man back to take the message and get a reward. 
I say that this child is their god, and that they will 
spare none of us, nor our women, if we harm 
him.” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom of the 
Colonel, who made the diversion, and an angry and 
heated discussion followed. Wee Willie Winkie, 

1. Sir Champion. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


237 


standing over Miss Allardyce, waited the upshot. 
Surely his “wegiment,” his own ‘‘wegiment,’’ would 
not desert him if they knew of his extremity. 

*###### 

The riderless pony brought the news to the 195th, 
though there had been consternation in the Coloners 
household for an hour before. The little beast came 
in through the parade-ground in front of the main 
barracks, where the men were settling down to play 
spoil-five till the afternoon. Devlin, the color-ser¬ 
geant of E Company, glanced at the empty saddle and 
tumbled through the barrack-rooms, kicking up each 
room corporal as he passed. “Up, ye beggars! there’s 
something happened to the Colonel’s son,” he shouted. 

“He couldn’t fall off! S’elp me, ’e couldn’t fall 
off,’’ blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt acrost 
the river. He’s over there if he’s anywhere, an’ may 
be those Pathans have got ’im. For the love o’ Gawd, 
don’t look for ’im in the nullahs! Let’s go over the 
river. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ There’s sense in Mott yet, ’ ’ said Devlin. ‘ ‘ E Com¬ 
pany, double out to the river—sharp! ’ ’ 

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, doubled 
for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the perspir¬ 
ing sergeant, adjuring it to double yet faster. The 
cantonment was alive with the men of the 195th hunt¬ 
ing for Wee Willie Winkie, and the Colonel finally 
overtook E Company, far too exhausted to swear, 
struggling in the pebbles of the river-bed. 


238 SHOET STOEIES FOE HIGH SCHOOLS 


Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s bad 
men were discussing the wisdom of carrying off the 
child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots. 

“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahammed. 
“There is the warning! The pultun are out already 
and are coming across the plain! Get away! Let 
us not be seen with the boy!” 

******* 

“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, confidently, to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s all 
wight. Don’t cwy!” 

He needed the advice himself, for, ten minutes 
later, when his father came up, he was weeping bit¬ 
terly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap. 

And the men of the 195th carried him home with 
shouts and rejoicings; and Coppy, who had ridden 
a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his intense dis¬ 
gust, kissed him openly in the presence of the men. 

But there was balm for his dignity. His father 
assured him that not only would the breaking of 
arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct badge 
would be restored as soon as his mother could sew it 
on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce had told the 
Colonel a story that made him proud of his son. 

“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy fore¬ 
finger. “I knew she didn’t ought to go acwoss ve 
wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would come to me if I 
sent Jack home.” 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE 


239 


“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy, “a pukka 
hero! ’ ’ 

“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, ‘'but you mustn’t call me Winkie any no 
more. I’m Percival Will ’am Will ’ams. ’ ’ 

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie enter 
into his manhood. 


Rudyard Kipling, 1865. 

Of unusual interest has been the career of Rudyard Kipling, 
the poet of “greater England.’* He was born at Bombay, 
the son of an English artist, but educated in England at the 
United Service College, Devonshire. Returning to India at 
the age of seventeen, he began his literary career as a news¬ 
paper reporter. During the extraordinary vicissitudes of his 
life he has twice visited America, at one time living for several 
months in Vermont; has made a complete trip around the 
globe; and has travelled both as correspondent and pleasure 
seeker through Japan, China, South Africa, Australia, and 
New Zealand. Even at college he showed himself possessed 
of unusual gifts and possibilities; and, since graduating, as 
magazine editor, journalist, war correspondent, poet, and nov¬ 
elist, he has proved and perfected these possessions. 

The dominant traits of his mind and character are vigor, 
truthfulness, virility. These qualities, together with a pene¬ 
trative appreciation of men and situations, the ability to dis¬ 
tinguish essentials, an inborn dramatic power, and a natural 
mastery of technique, give color, strength, vividness to his 
writings. Stevenson has sounded the keynote of his success 
in the brief statement that, even with his “love of journalistic 
effect, there is a tie of life in it all. ’ ’ 

The majority of his stories are Indian tales, either of the 
English in India or of the native himself. The twenty-five 
volumes of his work contain not only numerous short-stories, 


240 


SHORT STORIES FOR HIGH SCHOOLS 


but also longer ones, journalistic articles, and many poems. 
Of the last, the best and most widely known are The Reces¬ 
sional (composed on the occasion of Queen Victoria’s second 
Jubilee), and The White Man’s Burden. 

Suggested Readings: Without Benefit of Clergy; Toibrah; 
The Man Who Was; Beyond the Bale; Baa, Baa, BlacTc Sheep; 
Namgay Doola; The Drums of the Fore and Aft; Soldiers 
Three; The Jungle Boole; 007; Brother Square Toes; A Cen¬ 
turion of the Thirtieth; The Man Who Would Be King. 


QUESTIONS 

1. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow is considered a tale. 
What points of resemblance has it to the short-story proper? 

2. What resources of the novel are denied the short-story? 

3. One of the aims of the short-story is to give singleness 
of effect or impression. How is this achieved? 

4. Find the single effect or impression of some of the 
stories in the present volume. What items of character, of 
description, of setting, in the introductions heighten this 
effect? 

5. Relative to the last two questions, to what end should 
the action in the short-story be unified? 

6. The period of time covered by the action should be as 
short as possible. In The Necklace how does the author man¬ 
age the lapse of ten years and still preserve unity of time? 

7. Observe the unity of place in the various stories. 

8. Discuss the relative importance of the three unities 
previously mentioned. 

9. What is their combined value? 

10. Only to what extent are description, background or 
setting, incident,.and character valuable? 

11. Study the incidents in some of the stories in this col¬ 
lection. What relation have they to plot development and 
climax? 

12. Point out the incidents in three or four of the stories, 
and note if they be dramatic incidents, plot developing inci¬ 
dents, character incidents, relief incidents, foreshadowing inci¬ 
dents, incidents for setting forth customs, or incidents for 
revealing superstitions. 

13. Point out the dominant trait of character of the main 
actor in each story. Show the relation between it and the inci¬ 
dents of development. 

14. List the developing incidents leading to the climax. 
List those leading from it. 


241 


246 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


G. H. Nettleton. “Specimens of the, Short Story.” Henry 
Holt and Co. 

Alexander Jessup. “Little Classics.” 18 Vols. Houghton 
Mifflin Co. 

William Patten. “Short Story Classics” (American). 5 
Vols.; “Short Story Classics” (Foreign). 5 Vols. P. F. 
Collier and Son. 

Charles Scribner’s Sons. 11 Stories by American Authors. ’ ’ 
10 Vols.; “Stories by English Authors.” 10 Vols.; 
“Stories by Foreign Authors.” 10 Vols. 

The McClure Co. Stories from McClure’s. 5 Vols. 

Julian Hawthorne. “The Lock and Key Library.” 10 Vols. 






























































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